


A Rush of Blood to the Head

by LizzieRimmsy (HardlightLibrarian)



Series: ER Headcanon [1]
Category: ER (TV 1994)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bisexuality, Bromance, Brother-Sister Relationships, Depression, Fake Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, Feelings Realization, Flashbacks, Gen, Guest Stars, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love Confessions, Medical Jargon, Memories, Near Death Experiences, Original Character(s), Post-Canon Fix-It, Season/Series 03, Whump, headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 42,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22019302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardlightLibrarian/pseuds/LizzieRimmsy
Summary: After Dennis Gant's passing, Carter has troubles coming to terms with everything, but finds out that it’s not just his mental health that is on the decline.
Series: ER Headcanon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734598
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	1. I’ve Been Thinking Too Much, Help Me

**Author's Note:**

> New year, new fanfic. I have been watching the series a lot lately, and I thought, “Why not?”
> 
> I also didn’t like how things ended with Gant, and how over it Carter seemed to be in the series, and damnit, I just want Carter to be happy for once!

John Carter laid there in his bed, staring unblinking at the ceiling. The last time he took a glance at the time, it was just fifteen after five in the morning; it was now seven. He couldn’t sleep, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. He was overthinking — again. Past relationships, both romantic and not, replaying old conversations and wondering if he could have said or done something different. _Would_ he? Probably not.

Five past now.

He could feel his eyes getting heavier by the second, but it wasn’t happening.

_Why the hell didn’t I take those melatonin pills Carol offered?_

_Because you’re an idiot?_

He grabbed one of his pillows, shoved it onto his face and screamed long and hard.

His insomnia would bite him in ass later, for sure — Benton would rip him a new one — but he couldn’t sleep.

With a frustrated groan, he ripped the sheets and covers off and got up. Still crumpled by sleep, he padded to the kitchen for a much needed cup of coffee. Much to his chagrin, he had none.

He slammed the empty pot down, glaring at the machine as if it were at fault for not magically making coffee. “Great start,” he mumbled.

Eying his apartment door, the thought of leaving and going in early popped into his head. He wasn’t supposed to be on for another five hours, but at that point, he would prefer a few surgeries over recalling everything he ever did, sending himself into madness.

After stuffing his duffle bag and himself into his _Jeep_ , he drove off. Some part of him begged not to go, that he should have just stayed in bed — having been awake for over twenty-four hours, he could have used some rest — it was better to keep his mind busy on other things.

He stopped at a red light, two cars ahead of him. He couldn’t help but find himself slipping out of consciousness. His eyes popped back open; he shook off the drowsiness and slapped himself.

”Come on. Five more minutes and you’re there.”

For a moment, one brief, glorious moment, he stopped thinking. In fact, he stopped everything. He stopped caring, worrying, blinking, moving, breathing…

The only thing that snapped him out of his trance was an irate commuter behind him honking their horn incessantly.

He gasped and his body jerked, though his seatbelt kept him from making a full jump out of his skin. Already taxed from lack of oxygen for a short time, his heart beat a samba in his chest.

After he collected himself, he waved apologetically out the window and drove off.

_Okay. Note to self: definitely talk to Doctor Greene about that._


	2. I’m Fine, (Not) Really

“Well?”

Mark took his stethoscope off John’s chest. “You’re a little brady,” he replied.

John's dark brown eyes widened. “Really?”

“Heart rate is fifty on the dot,” He pulled off his latex gloves and threw them in a nearby bin. “Nothing to worry about _too_ much.”

“Nothing to worry about? Anything under sixty is something to worry about.”

“We can run some tests, but since you’re asymptomatic, I think the best thing for you to do is to go home and get some sleep. You look exhausted.”

John spluttered out a chuckle. “No way. I'm staying here,” he groaned as he got up. “Plus, it beats laying around, thinking myself to death.”

“Been one of those nights, huh?” Mark asked, tilting his head slightly.

“You could say that,” he murmured, just audible enough to get a small snicker out of Mark. “You know what's funny? My whole life I've been at a low. Even as a kid. Then Gant–” John's words got caught in his throat, unable to get anything past the lump that was wedged in there. He coughed and tried again. “Well, let's just say I didn't think I could get any lower.”

Mark set himself down where John had been just moments ago, put one leg over the other, and rested his clasped hands on his knee. “Is that why you haven't been sleeping?”

As he plucked up his doctor's coat and slipped his arms into the sleeves, he nodded. “Among other things.”

“You shouldn't beat yourself up over this. You're not guilty of anything.”

“Aren't I?” His voice raised to a degree. “I could have stopped him. I could have. Instead, I had to go screwing around with someone who I'm never going to see again anyway.”

“You mean Doctor Keaton?” Noticing John's puzzled expression, he added, “Word gets around quickly here.”

“I've noticed,” he flopped down beside Mark, forcing out a harsh exhale. “I'm not doing well, am I?”

“You’re doing your best,” Mark lightly patted him on the upper back. “Why don’t you go into one of the empty exam rooms and sleep? I'll tell Benton you’re out sick.”

John rose to his feet once more. “That wouldn’t be too much of a lie. I _do_ feel sick.”

“All the more reason to rest.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, already headed there.

In that instant, Doug sidled up next to Mark, tucking his basketball under his arm. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Mark said, focused on finding the list of pager numbers.

“Yeah, sure. Seriously.”

“What’s up?”

“If I pay for your lunches for the next week, will you _please_ get Weaver off my back?”

“Still pestering you, is she?”

A sigh accompanied a roll of Doug’s eyes. “I’m telling you if I hear about filing out forms one more time, I swear!” Taking his basketball in both hands, he shook it as though it were Kerry and he was strangling her.

“You could just fill out the forms.”

“Meh, who wants to do that? Jerry?”

Jerry placed his hand over the desk phone’s receiver. “No can do, my good man. Busy.”

“Busy? You’re never busy!”

Carol, trailing behind, wandered over to them, her olive green eyes fixed on John. “What's going on with him?” She gestured to John.

“Ah, nothing, he's just running on empty. Picking up those extra shifts is killing him. I told him to rest up,” He picked up the phone at the front desk and dialled.

Doug nodded to John, his expression deadpan. “So we shouldn't worry about him staggering around like he’s blitzed out of his mind?”

Mark glanced up to see their view, and initially paid no attention to it. “He's–” Once he did a double-take, he realised he was right. “Oh, God,” Promptly, he hung up the phone. “Carter!”

The three of them sprinted towards him.

John stumbled about until he finally fell flat on his face.

“And down he goes,” said Doug, somewhat winded and not even remotely surprised at that point. “Is he out?”

“Yep. How many times is that now? Three?” Mark knelt down to check his pulse.

“Eight,” Carol stated.

“Hmm. I lost count after Chen knocked him out,” He removed his fingers from John's neck. “His heart rate has gotten slower. I think we have to admit him.”

* * *

Five hours went by — still no change. John was out cold, heart rate holding steady at forty-eight.

Lydia, one of the ER’s nurses, entered his room to check his vitals. The sound of her moving near his bed caused him to stir, but she thought nothing of it and left shortly after.

Gradually, John woke up to blinding fluorescent lights; he couldn't make out his surroundings. His bleary eyes scanned the area for a familiar face, but after only seeing various medical equipment, surmising that he was in the ICU.

“Lydia?” He croaked out to her.

She spun around and hustled back inside. “Carter. How are you doing?”

He gave her a half-smile. “Never been better,” he sleepily said just before dozing off, and his breathing stopped.

Lydia’s once relieved demeanour swiftly changed. “Carter?” Her eyes flicked from the monitor to John and back, watching his O-sat and heart rate drop, though not for long. She ran out to the hallway and screamed, “I need help here!”

John’s eyes snapped open. He snorted loudly and began hyperventilating, slowing down bit by bit.

This snagged her attention, but she remained outside the room.

He sniffled hard, sat up and nonchalantly asked, “What, what happened?”

Hearing the ruckus, Kerry hobbled to Lydia as fast as she could. “What’s going on?”

“Carter. He–”

“ _Carter_?” she echoed, incredulous. She shuffled in and was instantly both mortified and confused. “What are you doing here?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” He took notice of the heart monitor going crazy to his left, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized it. “Is that working?”

“It’s working perfectly, which is what concerns me. These levels aren’t good.”

Not good was an understatement; his oxygen sat was eighty-nine, his heart was beating at a whopping fifty-three beats a minute, his respiratory frequency was fourteen and his BP was ninety over sixty, but each improved the longer he stayed awake.

He waved her worries away like they were gnats. “Nah, I just stood up too fast earlier, I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Can I get to work now? Those patients aren’t going to see themselves.”

Kerry’s face remained a plank of wood, her amazement hidden only by a slow breath. She motioned her hand in the direction of the door. “Alright, go.”

John wasted no time in ripping off the electrodes stuck to his chest and the IV from his forearm, even though it hurt like hell. He didn’t care, he just wanted out. However, his excuse for earlier came true; he got up too quickly and felt off, his vision going fuzzy and his head feeling full.

He lost his balance, and despite his best efforts in keeping himself upright, hanging on to the tray next to his bed, he wound up crashing to the floor for the second time that day.

Kerry stared at him, shaking her head. “What were you saying before?”

He still uttered the mantra he refused to give up, for fear of worrying about how wrong he was. “I’m fine,” he rasped, in great pain.


	3. Stubborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one is late. Life caught up to me. Anyway, this one includes some personal experiences. I have fasted/stopped eating and damn near passed out from being sick. Not fun, kids. Not fun at all.

John’s lengthy fingers pushed down on a patient’s distended abdomen — a patient who groaned each time he did it. He couldn’t help but cringe and shift his weight along with her. Not out of sympathy — although he did care in great excess — but out of his own pain. It was a cross between hunger pangs and some other sensation he couldn’t quite make out. He could feel a wave of heat, washing over his upper body. There was no hiding his flushed face.

“You alright, Doctor?” asked Haleh.

Through his jitters and mildly elevated breathing, he managed to nod. “I’m okay. Just need to– Is anyone else hot?”

Both Haleh and the patient shook their heads.

_Great. Just me then._ “Okay, Miss De Mayo, looks like you don’t need surgery after all. I think all you have is some trapped wind. We’re going to give you some–” With all the fog in his head, his thoughts trailed off. He froze. He hadn’t been like this since his first few days here.

“Simethicone?” Haleh jumped in.

“Yes, Haleh. I was getting to it, thank you,” he snapped at her. Very unlike him. He breathed deep, then spoke in a relaxed tone. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Miss De Mayo, we’re going to start you on simethicone. It’s gonna break down the gas to help you pass it.”

Haleh began taking notes. “How much?”

He shifted his blank gaze to the nurse. Her words were like gibberish to him. “Pardon?”

“How many milligrams?”

“Oh! Uh, one-twenty-five.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

She gave him a curt nod and walked past him.

“Wait!” He reached for Haleh, stopping her in her tracks. “Ninety-five.”

“Ninety-five?” she echoed, making certain he had it right. “You’re sure this time?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, his voice rushed and breaking.

“I was talking about the medication, but good to know, Doctor Carter,” she retorted and left.

John offered one of those smiles meant to conceal disdain, even though she had her back to him. “I meant ninety-five, but, yes, I _am_ fine!” he yelled out to her. He glanced over at his patient, who was staring expectantly at him. A genuine smile then formed on his face but went just as quickly as he produced it. “She’ll be back with the meds. Excuse me.”

He hurriedly made his way through empty exam rooms and bustling hallways, searching for an ultrasound machine. Finally, he found one up against the wall, beside a crash cart. He wheeled it in, walking backwards into a vacant room.

After peeling off his coat and tossing in on to a bed tray, he hastened to situate himself on the bed and hiked up his shirt.

He eyed the machine with perplexity. “How do you use this thing?” he muttered to no-one but himself. It was his first time.

Doug Ross passed by at that moment, briefly looked into the room but not entirely noticing what was going on inside of it, at first. He stopped, wheeled around and entered. “Carter?”

He cast only the slightest of glances to him before returning to what he was doing. “Oh, hey.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Self-exam. What does it look like?” he replied, nervous laughter tucked into the nooks and crannies of his words. He squeezed more gel on himself than he needed and grimaced at Doug.

He was going to reprimand him for leaving the ICU, but he could tell something had him frazzled. He moved closer. “Here, let me do it. What’s going on?”

John handed the probe to him and laid back, resting his arm behind his head. “Just some upper left quadrant pain, hot flashes, sweating, as you can tell,” He pointed to his greasy hair. “Shaking…”

“Well, you look worse than when I saw you earlier, I won’t lie. Any vertigo?”

“No, I just feel wiped out.”

Doug adjusted the clarity of the image on the monitor. “I’m not seeing anything out of the ordinary. Did you sleep at all?”

“However long I was unconscious for. That’s it.”

“When was the last time you ate anything?”

John’s eyes narrowed as he thought back. “What’s today?”

“Wednesday.”

“Monday.”

Doug raised his eyebrows in disbelief at him. “You haven’t eaten in two days? Why?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t felt up to it.”

“No wonder you feel like shit,” he said, groaning as he reached to turn off the machine. “Go into the lounge and get something to eat.”

“I have patients that–”

“You’ve got nothing. Trust me, it’ll help. And if you don’t do it, I’ll have to subject you to hours of the VHS of _Barney_ that’s been on repeat in Peds since January.”

He chortled softly. “Deal.”

“Come on,” Doug threw him a cloth to wipe the gel and anti-inflammatory off. “Clean yourself off and I’ll meet you outside. I think I saw some doughnuts earlier.”

“How very health conscious of you.”

“Would you rather have our cafeteria’s fines salads, now with added E.coli?”

“No, thanks. I think I’m good,” John got on his feet and started fixing his shirt.

“Wise choice.”

* * *

By the time they made it to the lounge, there were three doughnuts left; two powdered sugar and one chocolate frosted.

“Hallelujah!” Doug exclaimed. “Have at it.”

“You don’t want any?”

“Deep fried cake? Not for me.”

All John could bring himself to do was scrutinise it, avoiding eating it as though it were dangerous. He knew what would happen as soon as that first bite would hit his stomach; a hot flash would slap him in the face like a scornful ex-girlfriend and he'd feel like he would pass out. Experience had taught him that. It also didn't help that the smell of brewing coffee made him ill.

Catching sight of him, Doug’s eyebrows puckered. Gradually, he set his empty mug on the countertop. “Something wrong?”

“No, just nervous, I guess.”

“About eating?”

“It’s stupid, I know.”

“You have every right to be,” He set himself down beside John. “Seeing as this is the first bit of solid food you've had in two days, there is no doubt your body will go into shock. It’s spooky. But you’re hypoglycaemic, you need to eat.”

He gave a half-nod, then raised his ‘breakfast’ to take a bite, but only it made it inches from his lips. He apprehensively looked to Doug.

“It's okay, I'm right here.”

John puffed out his cheeks, filling with air and let it out slowly. He got it over and done with and took a bite. At first, he felt okay — great, even — but when it made its way past his oesophageal sphincter and into his stomach, he felt it. That familiar fullness in his head, the shaking, the uncontrollable hyperventilation.

He grabbed onto the edge of the table to keep from falling over, and tilted his head back, closing his eyes.

Hesitant to touch him at first, in case it would make things worse, Doug's hand hovered over John's shoulder, eventually setting it down. “You’re alright. Take a break and try again. I'll get you some water.”

Carol wandered in but froze in front of the doorway. Seeing John in the lounge, of all places, was unexpected, to say the least. Lydia told her he left, but she didn't think it was true. “Carter?”

He tore his attention from the ceiling and looked her in her olive-green eyes. “Hi, Carol.”

She walked in further, eyeing him with concern. “You look miserable. What are you doing here?”

“There you are,” Doug brought over a cup of water for him.

John spoke into the cup as he took a sip. “Thanks. AMA.”

“You can't be serious,” she grumbled and slapped Doug on his arm. “And you didn't think to send him back?”

“He was already freaking out. Was I supposed to make him feel worse?”

“ _This_ could make him worse! He should be upstairs, in bed!” Carol shouted.

“He is alert and coherent, Carol, I think he's okay to work.”

“I feel better, really,” John managed through a mouthful of a powdered doughnut.

“John, you stopped breathing.”

Doug's eyebrows shot to his hairline. “He did what?”

“Yeah. He started up again in his own, but still.”

“Well, then his brain is still working.”

“Clearly, neither of yours are working! It shouldn't have happened at all.”

“Carol–”

“Carter, how are you feeling right now? Be honest.”

Unexpectedly put on the spot, he stared, unblinking, chocolate brown eyes flitting back and forth between Doug and Carol. He gulped down the last bite he took. “Um...”

“You're alright,” Doug leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “He's alright.”

“You know, somehow I don't think he needs you answering for him.”

In that instant, he _wasn’t_ alright. In fact, right now, he felt uneasy. He was a little boy once more, and Carol and Doug were his bickering parents, using him to make a point. It was doing his head in. Or maybe it was something else, he couldn't tell anymore.

John scrunched his eyes shut and massaged his temples. They were too busy arguing to notice he wasn’t doing too well again. All this noise, all the other sounds that came from outside of the room, permeating through walls and directly into his brain — it was making him sick. He couldn't take it any longer.

“Okay, okay. Enough,” he said, but went unheard. He shot up, the chair he once occupied crashing to the floor, and he screamed, “ _ENOUGH_!”

They stopped, giving him stunned expressions. Neither of them ever heard him raise his voice.

John huffed out a breath through his flared nostrils. “It’s like listening to the inside of my own head,” he muttered as he stormed out.

Afterwards, Carol and Doug exchanged apologetic glances, then shared a look at John, watching him leave yet again.

“I’m getting Kerry,” she said.

“In that case, you didn't see me,” Doug bolted out of the room to find a new hiding place.

John steamed down the hall, headed nowhere in particular except away. He began to wonder why he bothered to show up today.

Sprinting after him was Peter Benton. “Carter!”

“What?!” he barked back and spun around. Immediately, he regretted losing his cool.

“What's the matter with you?”

A panicked expression filtered across his handsome features. "Nothing," He tugged at his earlobe. “Sorry, I’ve been doing that all day. Snapping and– You don’t care, do you?”

“Not in the least. I’ve been paging you for the last two hours. Where the hell have you been?”

He glanced at his watch; realising the time, his eyes bulged. “Oh, God. The splenectomy.”

“Yeah...”

“Did I miss it?”

“Unfortunately. But we have a hernia coming in twenty minutes. Think you can make that one?”

“Yes, yes, I can. Just, uh…” He glanced at the clock above the admitting desk. He had five minutes to get ready. “Let me freshen up first.”

“Fine, but don't take too long.”

After Peter left, John let himself feel; his legs loosened, his belly bled out the tension that had built up from the hours of feeling like shit. But he was far too tired to worry about that now. He shuffled to the men’s room, looked around to see if the coast was clear, and then splashed some cool water on his face. He stared at his reflection for a moment. His cheeks were flushed, yet his skin was pale. His eyes were wet, his mouth dry. Yes, he looked like shit, but in his eyes he saw, somehow, resilience. Or perhaps stubbornness.

John began to leave when a familiar churn in his stomach developed. It wasn't long before he found himself rushing back to the sink and hurling the contents inside, few as it was. His retching was harsh and only got worse.

Once he regained his breath, he shifted to a standing position, and even then, he still slumped. His breathing quickened, edges of his vision started to turn white, further and further until…

_Thud!_

Except he didn't lose consciousness. He forced himself to stay with it. John remained there on the men's room floor for no other reason than to wait for his strength to come back. He felt nothing but disconnected from reality, and if he didn't move soon, he wasn't going to at all.

A trembling hand reached up for the edge of the sink, then the other followed. John strained to pull himself up and almost failed to. Screams were at the back of his mind; panic mixed with anticipation of someone entering and seeing him like this. Tension, fear, confusion and even a momentary desire to crawl home were all there.

_No_ , he thought. _I can do this._

John tried again to stand and straighten himself out. He gripped the sink with one hand and pushed up with his elbow. Suddenly, he groaned as he felt a sharp sensation in his back. He froze, until the pain subsided, and stayed that way when he heard indistinct voices outside.

He had two choices; stay in this position and wait for whomever it was to come in and nag him into leaving the ER, which he would ignore entirely, or haul his ass up and get out before the former happened. He chose the latter.

Swiftly, yet steadily, he stood. He stayed upright until he felt he could walk without much help from the sink. Once more, he eyes himself in the mirror, almost smiling. He did it. Alone. Small victories. He would take them when and where he could get them.


	4. I Shouldn't Be Here

It was almost peaceful in the OR — at least for those who enjoyed working there. The sound of surgical tools clanking together, the communication between surgeons, working as a team... and then there was John Carter, beyond exhausted and mumbling to himself.

Twenty minutes into the procedure, John began listing off various medical conditions, at least at the start. By this point, he was adding complete, indecipherable gibberish to the mix, which left everyone in the room confused and distressed. What they didn't know was that he was doing it on purpose, to keep himself awake.

“Doctor Carter, are you okay?” Hicks asked.

He moved his head in a way that no-one could decipher if it was a nod or a shake. “... Pneumothorax,” he replied.

Peter stared at him, then at Hicks. “Should I take him outside?”

“Suction.”

John caught himself falling asleep and snapped out of it long enough to get what she needed.

No-one could tell with the mask on, but a slight smile played at Hicks’ mouth. “Well, he can understand us. I’d say there’s no need to worry.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not closing.”

“I agree,” She glanced up at the clock above the door; almost an hour had passed. “Although, I think you two are pretty much done here. Why don’t you scrub out and talk with the family.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

He wasn’t budging, too lost in whatever plane of existence he was in at the moment.

“Carter,” A near imperceptible tilt of John’s head told him he was somewhat responsive. “Carter, come on.”

He peered around the room, at the many faces, just about forgetting they were there, or where he was. Finally, he landed his sights on Peter, who simply gazed into his glassy eyes. He nodded and staggered out like a zombie.

Peter followed close, in case he needed to catch him. He watched as John yanked off his gloves and plonked himself down in the nearest chair he could find. It wasn’t until then, when they were in different lighting, that Peter noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

John moaned, not out of pain but out of anxiety. Though he didn’t feel anxious, his body showed all the hallmarks; shaking, increased breathing. The only thing that was missing was the fast heart rate.

“‘S... too slow,” he said, his speech slurring. John slapped two fingers on his wrist, checking his pulse.

“Carter, what is going on?”

“Shhhhtshh, sh-sh! I need to concentrate,” However, concentrated or not, he had troubles. “I can’t find my pulse. That's not good,” What started out as a giggle-snort eventually turned into a full-on guffaw.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No!” He sounded insulted, yet unsure. As out of it as he was, he could have done anything without remembering. He thought back and couldn’t recall having liquor of any sort. “Well, water, but even then...” he chortled.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Wait, no, no, no. Shh! I got it, I got it.”

“Answer me, Carter.”

Ignoring him, John shut his eyes and counted, his mouth working soundlessly. Thirty seconds later, he had his number. _Twenty-six times two_... “Fifty-two. It seems slower than that,” he said, finishing his thought out loud.

Peter eased himself down beside him. “Your heart?”

John inhaled sharply. “How did it go?”

“The surgery?” Responding to John’s nod, he said, “It went well, considering–”

“Considering I was one of the _Living Dead_ in there?”

A small chuckle left Peter. “Something like that.”

“Three days,” he suddenly answered.

“Huh?”

He clarified, “I haven’t slept in three days.”

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Take a wild guess.”

Dark chocolate brown eyes flicked to a spot on the linoleum while he thought, then returned to John. “Gant’s death.”

“I thought I could move on. Then again, I thought I was enough, but...” He paused, overcome with grief and regret. “Is it selfish of me to think that?” he quavered.

“No. We all think that. Or hope we are. You didn’t know it would happen.”

“Therein lies the rub,” John tilted his head back, blindly looking to the heavens. “I just wish that whatever this is, would kill me. Long enough for me to see him and tell him, ‘I’m sorry and... I get it. I _really_ get it.’ Maybe that’s why I came in today. On some level, I _knew_ and– I shouldn’t be here, I know I shouldn’t, but _God_ , if my heart would _just_ stop–”

“Now that’s not funny.”

“Do you see me laughing?”

The glare John gave him, his puffy eyes still filled with tears that had yet to fall, and the mirthless, breaking tone in his voice told him all he needed to hear. “Look, believe it or not, there are people here who would feel just as fucked up as you do right now, if you left.”

John simply stared at him, mouth scantily agape. He had to wonder if he heard him correctly.

“And you’ve made an impact on–” He stopped there, before he admitted his feelings. “There are patients who would miss you, Carter. If you want to self-destruct, I can’t stop you, but, uh... I hope you don’t,” Picking up on John's fixed stare and lack of response, he took it as a sign that he got through. He hoped. Following his standing up, he asked, “I’m going to talk to the boy’s family now, are you coming or not?”

At first, he was dumbfounded; speechless. “Y-yeah, yeah. It’s just– I don’t get why you're being nice to me. What do you care?”

Hesitantly, he replied, “Because I don’t want it to happen again. Losing him was horrible, but _you_ –”

John waited for him to finish, but he never did. “What about me?”

“Carter, I’d rather not do this now.”

“You started it.”

“Well, I’m ending it.”

“Oh, that’s original,” John retorted with a grunt as he got on his feet. He was about to say something else sarcastic but a sudden rush of blood to his head cut him off. At least, he thought it was that. A low, distressed moan was all he could utter next as he grabbed on to the wall.

Peter looked over his shoulder, then gave him his full attention. “What’s wrong now?”

“I don’t kn– I– Sparkles,” he answered, his words coming short and clipped.

“Sparkles?” Peter flatly repeated.

He nodded quickly. “In the... edges of... vi–” It was all he could manage without something undesirable happening.

Peter recalled the look on his face. The one he got when he began working there, and every other time since then, whenever he was stressed. That look. Just as he was about to ask if he was okay, he watched John haul ass to the nearest rubbish bin with the grace of a drunken giraffe, miss completely and almost crashed into the wall instead, tumbling to his haunches.

_Not again_ , was all John could think at that moment.

Lightly, Peter tapped his cheek to get him to come back into in. “Carter? Hey, look at me.”

John bugged out his heavy eyes for a second. “Am I falling backwards?”

“No,” he replied. His brows furrowed, unsure of why he asked an odd question — of course he wouldn’t be falling, he was already down. “It’s alright. I think it’s just the adrenaline kicking in.”

Everything seemed to be moving, including himself. He didn’t like this one bit. “Oh, God.”

Repeatedly, John tried grabbing for something — anything — to keep himself grounded. For some reason, he thought jolting up on his haunches and leaning his elbow against Peter was a good idea; the quickness of his movement made him more dizzy.

“Hey, hey. Easy,” Not wanting him to hurt himself, he took John’s hand in his. “You’re okay.”

He flopped back into his previous position, up against the wall. He felt Peter place his hand behind his head, so he wouldn’t hit it, John eyed their clasped hands for a while until, out of nowhere, he started snickering for no apparent reason.

“What’s so funny?”

“You were right,” John said, considerably more relaxed. “You messed up. I shouldn’t be here.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“No, I mean here, doing surgery. You never should have taken me in.”

“You know, now isn’t the best time to have an epiphany.”

“It’s not an epiphany. I’ve felt like this for a while. I picked this stupid career. I suck at it, and you knew the whole time, didn't you? Tell me.”

“Carter–”

“Tell me!”

“Okay. You’re right. You don’t suck at it, but... you’re right, it’s not a good fit.”

John breathed off an airy laugh, staring at Peter with gratitude in his eyes. “And that… is the most genuine you’ve been with me in days,” He began to drift off, heavy eyes unable to stay open. John’s grip on Peter’s hand slipped for a second, but grabbed on again briefly. “I think I’m fading.”

And with that, he was down for the count.

“Carter?” Peter was gentle with shaking him. He only shook a limp body. “Carter! Come on, man, wake up,” His long, mocha fingers settled on John’s neck, checking for a pulse. It was stagnant, becoming a big concern. Peter watched as he huffed out his last breath. His stomach sank like a lead weight.

Just as Peter was about to call for help, out of nowhere, John gasped harshly as air ripped through his lungs. He let out a panicked scream as he gripped Peter's forearm. Feeling the man's soft skin against his fingers was almost enough to ground him. Every breath after that was shallow, if not stalling on occasion.

Peter could feel him losing consciousness again. Immediately, he woke him up. “Hey, hey. Stay with me. Come on.”

His chocolate brown eyes opened slightly. “Mm… trying.”

But he was out once more, this time unable to come around.

Without hesitation, Peter hefted him up, held him in his arms like a young child, and made a mad dash for the ER, not knowing what else to do.

Hicks came out of the OR, where she caught some of the horrifying sight; all she could see was Peter’s back and the top of John’s head and legs dangling over his arm. “Oh, God. What happened?”

“If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the ER,” he hastened to say.


	5. Selfless

The sound of his pristine white shoes slamming down hard against the linoleum floor echoed throughout the hallway. He was running, but his footing was unstable. Carrying a man weighing fifty-five kilos whilst sprinting was no easy feat, but he did it. He had to. He ran so hard, his chest burned, as if he had a sudden, horrible bout of heartburn.

Narrowly, he dodged other doctors and nurses. A noise he didn’t even realise he could produce, one that was a mixture of grunting and wailing, had escaped his throat.

Arriving in the ER, finally among faces of people he recognised, people he could trust, he stopped. Some nurses and interns looked at Peter with curiosity and shock, with an inward admonition to do something before they became suspicious.

He caught his breath and screamed out, “Come on, I need some help!”

It caught the attention of Carol and the other nurses at the desk.

“Oh, God,” Carol murmured. She motioned for Lydia and Chuny to come with her. “Is he–?”

Peter marginally shook his head. “Unconscious.”

“Trauma one,” They passed Mark as he was examining a patient. “Mark, we need you!”

“Son of a–” He immediately stopped what he was doing and rushed after them. By the time he joined them, John was already on the gurney. While slipping into a thin, yellow gown and latex gloves, he asked Lydia, “What’s going on?”

“Heart rate, thirty-nine, BP is seventy-one over twenty, pulse ox is eighty-nine percent,” Lydia said.

“What happened, Benton?”

“I-I don’t know,” Peter replied. “He was fine, then he stood up–”

“And collapsed?” Mark finished.

_How did–? Never mind._ “Yeah. He said something about a condition. Any idea what it is?”

“Well, he hasn’t been around much to be checked, but best guess? Dysautonomia,” Mark looked to Chuny. “Start an IV, Dopamine, eight milligrams; one-milligram Atropine, push.”

Carol, receiving no orders, bagged him and gave him some artificial air through a mask.

Tucked into the corner of the trauma room, Peter stood with arms wrapped around himself. Though he wouldn’t ever admit it, it scared him to lose John.

Bit by bit, John opened his eyes, only just enough to see Carol leaning over his head.

After double-taking, she kept her sights on him. “Mark?” She tapped him on his arm with her free hand. “He’s coming to.”

Mark gave John a slow smile. A small victory, but with his vitals still on the low side, he knew it might not last long. “Carter, can you hear me?”

John stared beyond them, chocolate brown eyes focused on something unseen to everyone else.

“Carter?”

He peered around the mustard yellow room, barely keeping his attention on one thing for more than a millisecond, eyeballs straining to look at the beeping monitors above the crown of his head. He didn’t have the energy to fully move. In the end, he landed on Peter, where he anchored his gaze.

Noticing this, a Sisyphean smile flashed across Peter’s face as he meagrely waved to him.

“He’s unresponsive,” Mark noted, then turned to Peter. “Did he hit his head?”

“He’s just waking up, Mark,” Carol insisted.

“I don’t think so,” Peter told him.

Carol glanced at the monitor before stopping assisted breathing. “Sat’s back up. BP is climbing and so is his pulse.”

“Okay, get a CBC,” Upon observing John repeatedly licking his dry, chapped lips and hearing him cough, Mark added, “And twenty CCs of fluid, he’s dehydrated,” Once again, he tried to get his attention. “John, I need you to look at me.”

He did, through arid, heavy eyes. “Doctor Greene. Long time no see,” he uttered in a hoarse voice. “What happened?”

“We were hoping you would know,” he said. “Do you remember anything that happened before you collapsed?”

Not one bit. To be perfectly honest, he could hardly remember his name. “I-I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. More importantly, why are you _here_? You should be in the ICU.”

He was _so_ tired of hearing those words. “So I’ve been told.”

“Remember when we talked about you working at an inhuman pace?”

John’s expression hardened ever so slightly. “I don’t think I know how not to.”

“You’re lucky you’re here,” Carol said. “But what happens when you go home and your O-sat drops? Or your heart slows down to the point of no return?”

“Then it does.”

She went pale, her eyes darting to a spot on the wall. Anything to avoid showing tears.

Peter hated that he was still set on letting go. He wanted badly to say something but didn’t want to bring it up with the others around.

“Can I get back to work now?” John asked.

“No,” Mark boomed.

The word insulted him. So much so he resented it. “Excuse me?”

“If it’s about being in intensive care–”

“It’s not about that. It’s about being useful!”

“You’re no use to _anyone_ if you’re unconscious or dead, Carter! I’m not asking at this point. Now, I can order to have you restrained if I have to, but I _really_ don’t want to.”

“Do I even get a say?” His voice stretched high and cracked.

“No, you don’t,” Mark tersely answered.

John stared pressingly at Peter, hoping he would say something in his defence. He couldn’t leave any patients alone; he didn’t have it in his big heart, and he knew he knew that.

“Don’t look to Benton, look at me,” Mark mildly commanded. “You _cannot_ be treating patients while you have bradycardia and ODI, you just can’t — you can’t function. I know _you_. I know you wouldn’t want anything to happen to anybody else, and as long as you’re symptomatic, something will inevitably happen.”

Though his blood was boiling, he knew he was right about one thing. He was fine if anything terrible happened to him, but his patients? God forbid. This is the same man who would rather sit with a child in renal failure than attend his graduation. If he could avoid the worst for them, he will. So, for their sake, he agreed.

John had a hangdog expression. “Fine. No ICU, though. I want to be here.”

Mark slid him a dubious gaze. “Not possible, Carter.”

“It _is_ possible! I won’t try anything, if that’s the problem. I’ll behave.”

He shook his head. “That’s not it. We don’t have the means to treat you properly, and you know damn well we don’t have the beds.”

“An exam bed, anything?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Carter,” Peter’s frustration rode on an exasperated breath. “You do that, you’ll endanger lives. Get your morals and priorities straight.”

Now he let his emotion show. His annoyance flared. It was just as though Peter didn’t think he knew what Mark had hammered into his head already. He just wanted to be close to friends. In as even a voice as he could muster, he said, “Okay, I’ll go,” However, he was ignored.

Mark talked over John, now pinning Peter to the wall with a glare. “You’re one to talk.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Peter demanded.

“You let him into surgery like this!”

“I didn’t know.”

“How could you not? He looks like death warmed over!”

“He seemed fine to me. The kid made it, anyway!”

“You got lucky.”

“I said _I’ll go_,” John interjected louder and more indignant than before. He still wasn’t acknowledged. He rolled his eyes and gave Carol a kill-me-now look.

She, Lydia and Chuny were the only ones paying attention, so the three of them took it upon themselves to get him ready to be transferred.

“While I’m at it, where the hell is Kerry?” At last, he caught Carol disconnecting machines and switching to portable ones. “What are you doing?”

As she pressed down on the latch that locked the gurney in place, she responded, “Taking him upstairs.”

“Oh. Well, next time, speak up, yeah?” Mark squeezed past Lydia and Peter and headed out to find Kerry.

Afterwards, Carol let out a bray, relieved the lunacy was over — for now. “Bet you’ll miss this, huh Carter?”

“Oh, the most,” he jested. “I am sorry for being... What’s the word?”

“Stubborn?”

“Difficult?” Lydia offered.

“Typical?” Carol added.

Chuny gave him a nervous smile. “Impolite?” 

“Unfortunate?” Peter chimed in at the last second, muttering.

“Alright, I got it,” John chuckled. “Just wheel me up.”

“I’ve got to go,” he patted John on the shin. “But I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Already? You just got here,” Heartbreak was detectable in his tone. He really didn’t want to be alone.

“I have another surgery to be at. What do you want me to do, Carter? Hold your hand?”

That heartbreak instantly switched to bitterness. Sharply, John inhaled. “You know what? Forget it. You’ve done enough.”

“Carter, what is it? Seriously.”

“I said forget it!” He glanced at Carol. “Can we just–?” John motioned ahead, showing he wanted to leave already before he changed his mind, crossing a line for a third time.

“You got it,” she said.


	6. When Did It Start Raining?

At last, John was able to get some rest. No dreams, which was odd for him. Lately, he’d been seeing ghosts. Night after night, his past self was talking to _him_ ; Dennis Gant. He was happy — _alive_. Of course, it was a dream. The whole relationship was just a fabrication, or a hallucination, or the result of the insane mental and physical punishments he’d given himself. John’s future self now found reason to be sad: the time he’d spent with Dennis Gant was over. He would never get to see him again.

John came back to reality and woke up, on the verge of crying. The room was dark, but not enough to impede his sight. The glow from the hall helped.

Bleary eyes caught a glimpse of someone. Someone on the short side, dark hair. He surmised it was Carol. Or maybe Maggie Doyle. He couldn’t tell, the sleepiness in his eyes hadn’t quite gone away yet. Whoever it was, they were about to leave.

John spoke up before they could. “Where are you going?”

A familiar voice came. It was Carol’s. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. My shift is over, so I thought I would check in.”

“Oh, that’s okay. It wasn’t you,” he said, somewhat quavering with emotion. John glanced out the wet window pane. “When did it start raining?”

“About an hour ago. Are you okay? You sound like you’ve been crying.”

“I think I was in my sleep. I don’t know,” He lifted his wrist to check the watch that wasn’t there, then flopped his arm back down on to his lap. “What time is it?”

“Eight fifteen — P.M. You’ve been out for seven hours. How do you feel?”

“Like I could sleep another twelve,” John and Carol both softly chuckled. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?”

“For being an ass.”

“You’ve already apologised for that, John.”

“I know, but still. I crossed many lines today, I could have easily mistreated a patient and I’m sorry for that.”

“Don’t tell me, tell the patients you saw.”

Panic hit him like icy water. Through quickening breaths, he asked, “Did something happen to them?”

“Nope. Miss De Mayo was able to pass gas — in fact, I think she rattled a few windows. And that boy, with the appendectomy, he’ll be fine and out in a few days,” She smiled at him. “You did well, considering how sick and exhausted you were.”

“Oh. Well, good. I was worried I left something in or gave the wrong dosage or... something.”

“No, but you could have, which is why I’m glad you decided to be admitted.”

“Well, I wasn’t left with much choice,” he replied, a hint of resentment laced with his words. “But so am I. To be honest, I’m grateful for the break,” Taking notice of Carol’s po-faced expression, John’s chocolate-brown eyes narrowed as if aiming a gun. “What’s wrong?”

Carol drew in a deep breath to calm her nerves. What she was about to bring up had the potential to be sensitive, and she didn’t want to say the wrong thing. She eventually responded in a low, troubled way. “When I was giving you oxygen, I saw something on your inner left arm. Vertical cuts. Obviously, there was some intent there.”

Feeling embarrassed and guilty, John shifted in bed and drawled, “Ohh, shit.”

“So you _did_ do it to yourself?”

Slowly, he nodded. “I’m not proud of it. I was weak and–” John gulped and, for a moment, bit the inside of his lower lip for emotional control. “I mean, how is it fair that I get to live while he’s gone, you know?”

“It’s not. But you’re doing great things — _amazing_ things — and I know he would be proud of you.”

“He hates me. _I_ hate me. I wasn’t there for him and–” Imperceptibly, he shook his head. “I keep going over it in my head, and I know that I should have done something. Said yes instead of no, backed him up...”

“That’s the problem. You’re overthinking it. You can’t change what happened. What you _can_ do is learn from your mistakes and grow.”

“Oh, I’ve learned,” he said with a scoff. “I’ve learned that I’m a miserable asshole who can’t stop feeling sorry for himself, and I’m sick of it.”

Carol shrugged. “So grow. If not for you then someone else.”

His brows furrowed. “Who?”

“That you will have to decide for yourself.”

“Who did you get better for?”

She tilted her head, sliding him a minor chiding gaze. “John...”

“I’m not going to take your answer or anything. I’m genuinely curious.”

“The future. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring. So, I hold on, hope that the next day something good will come along.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

She gave him another smile, thin-lipped, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “There’s always tomorrow.”

His spirits lifted ever so slightly. True, he had tomorrow, and that was something to be grateful for. Still, he felt horrible. Survivor’s guilt, quelling his best intentions, had returned to overpower him, to drag him down into a dark abyss. Yet against that heady mix of hope, exhaustion and rage, he fought. Or, at least, he tried to.

A voice from the darkness beside his eyes spoke, “I don’t hate you. Don’t kill yourself over me, John.”

“Easier said than done, I know,” Carol said, as if continuing the voice’s thought. “But you can do this. We’ll be here for you.”

John didn’t say a word and stared blankly near where her hand still laid. He wasn’t directly focused on that, but rather where the voice came from. To him, it sounded somewhat garbled, far off, yet familiar.

So, naturally, John’s attention drew to that. It wasn’t a ghost; he knew that, yet it seemed as if it were. By now, John had long forgotten where he was and focused on the other voice.

He didn’t speak to Carol, but nevertheless, instinct made him stutter, “Wh-what?”

Carol’s brows furrowed. “Are you okay, Carter?”

“Uh... Y-yeah. Yeah, I think I’m just tired.”

“Get some more rest. You need it,” Carol gave one last squeeze of his hand, and with that, she walked away, only to be stopped by Peter in the doorway. “Oh, hey,” she said. “He’s resting. I don’t know if–”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“That’s what I was going to say. I don’t think he wants to see you.”

“What do you mean? A while ago he did.”

She glared at him without blinking. “Well, he changed his mind.”

“Is this because I wouldn’t go with him?”

“There are other reasons, which you’d know if you–” Carol looked away, hoping that staring at the off-grey wall would calm her down. It still took every ounce of energy for her to not lose her temper. As evenly as she could, she said, “Look, he’s been through enough these past few days, not to mention whatever the hell is going on with him right now. I don’t want him to get stressed out.”

“You’re not his nurse, Carol. You can’t stop me from seeing him.”

“No, you’re right. But I _am_ his friend. You might want to try being one sometime.”

Peter watched as she stormed off, a spiteful wave of frustration filling his chest. He took a breath, letting it out with a sigh and gathered his resolve as he walked into the room, despite Carol’s protest.

He stood in the doorway, observing John for a moment. He couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not, with his head turned the other way. Hesitantly, Peter entered the room and took a load off in the chair at John’s bedside where he continued to watch, as if in a trance.

Finally, Peter shifted from his gaze and glowered out of the window, just for the sound of an alarm to tear away; it was the monitor going off. John’s resps were diminishing.

Peter let out a panicked moan. “Carter, come on, man. Don’t do this to me again.”

Before Peter could do anything to help, John spontaneously took in a breath. His eyes opened slow. His head felt full, and there was a ringing in his ears. Even so, John could hear Peter, except there was an added flutter with his voice. He drew in another breath and then another, each deeper and closer together than the last.

Dozy eyes fixed on Peter. Noting the fear on his face, John surmised that something happened. “I stopped breathing again, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did, briefly.”

“Sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Peter asked. “You can’t help this.”

“I don’t know. Just felt like the right thing to say,” Although, the more he thought of it, the more he realised he did have a reason to apologise. “Well, actually, I do know. I shouldn’t have overreacted. You have your life, I have mine — it’s not like we’re indebted to each other. We don’t owe each other anything. I have to remind myself that.”

“Carter–”

“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” John felt off suddenly. A different off than before. He shifted in bed and rubbed his stomach. “I can feel my pulse in my abdomen. I forget what that means.”

Peter put his hand on John’s stomach and lightly pushed. “Well, I don’t think you’re pregnant.”

“I’d hope not. That would account for the mood swings, though.”

“No, stress, lack of sleep and poor nutrition account for your mood swings.”

“Still, I’ve been feeling bloated lately–”

“Carter.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up for a second.”

John let out a partial laugh that turned into a cough. “Sorry.”

“And stop apologising.”

“Sor– Okay.”

With a sigh, Peter inched closer to him. Almost whispering, as though keeping his reasons for being in the ICU a secret, he asked, “Do they know what’s going on yet?”

“No, but,” John jerked his head towards a machine behind him. “They’ve got a continuous ECG going, and then there is the blood work, but we all know that could take hours.”

Peter carefully studied the results the machine was continuously spitting out. Unconsciously, he nodded along. “They know you work here,” he said. “You could–”

“I’m not using my title to get special treatment. Besides, I’m not going anywhere. You all made sure of that,” He managed to get Peter to snicker just a little bit. “Hey, that’s a first.”

“Yeah, well... Here’s another first: Kerry Weaver is getting an earful downstairs.”

“Aw, and I’m missing it?” John threw his head back, tutting.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get the same treatment when you get out of here. I’m supposed to go to a meeting tomorrow with Anspaugh, Greene and Weaver are coming, too.”

“Anspaugh?” he echoed, incredulous. “You guys did nothing wrong.”

“Technically, I did. I let you work on that kid when you were over exhausted and ill.”

“I barely touched him!”

“Calm down.”

“Are you serious? You come in here, tell me that my career may be on the line and now I’m supposed to calm down?!” he exploded.

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you came in today.”

John disdainfully laughed. “Oh, I don’t believe you. Get out.”

Peter saw his heart rate and respiratory increase dramatically. “Uh, I don’t think I should.”

“What? No, I... said– I can’t breathe,” Strained breaths mingled with his words. His attention was snared by Peter grabbing an O2 cylinder and moving around his bed. “That’s– What are you–?”

“Propping you up. Here,” He put the O2 mask over John’s nose and mouth. “See, now you’ve gone and got yourself worked up.”

John growled, muffled from the mask, as if to say it was Peter’s fault and the damn bastard knew it.

“Carter, just breathe and listen to me, okay? Your career isn’t in jeopardy. We’re going in to talk and make them understand that it was bad judgement call and we can all agree it won’t happen again, right?”

He vehemently nodded.

“Good. You alright? Should I take this off?”

John gave him the green-light, though he was lethargic about it. He helped Peter remove the mask, despite it being an easy enough of a task for one person. With all the energy of a sloth, John let go and said, “I feel wiped out.”

“Well, you haven’t been eating,” Peter told him. “And panicking isn’t doing you any favours.”

The ICU nurse came into the room at that point. “Is everything okay in here?” she asked.

_Bang on time_ , Peter thought and waved her off. “All good. Anxiety attack, but he’s calming down,” He glanced at the ECG, then slightly grimaced. “Guess that’ll have to be done again.”

“Thank you for that,” John lightly smiled just before dozing off. “I’m really tired.”

Peter gave a curt nod. “Okay. I’ll let you be.”

“Wait!” John grabbed hold of Peter’s hand, preventing him from walking out.

He stared at John’s hand for a second or two. He was surprised by how soft they were, considering the intensive scrubbing that came with being a surgeon. Eventually, Peter’s eyes moved away and locked with his, then pulled from John’s grip. At first, he stammered his words before being able to form a single one. “What?”

“I should be there. Tomorrow. It’s my job, it was my fault–”

“It’s not your fault. Nothing happened. But I think you should sit this one out,” Peter could see he was about to say something in his defence and swiftly cut him off. “And before you ask why, I think you know the answer to that one. I just had to help you come down from a panic attack. Imagine what that meeting will do to you. You’re in no shape for that.”

“I should be there,” John reiterated. “You’re probably right, I might wind up puking my guts out afterwards, but I deserve to be there.”

“I’ll fill you in when it’s over,” But there he was, getting the sad puppy look from the man who knew how to do all too well. Peter scoffed at the audacity of it. “You can do that all you want. I’m not changing my mind.”

“Do what?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Little rich white boy doesn’t get his way, so he pouts about it until he does.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Taking in the set scowl on his face, John donned a smirk. “So, it’s not working?”

“Not at all.”

“Alright fine,” John said with a windy sigh. “But I want details. No holding back because it’s me.”

“Carter, when have you ever known me to hold back?”

He gave him a barely noticeable nod. “Point taken.”

Air hissed through Peter’s teeth, rolling his eyes. “I gotta go. I’m late enough as it is.”

Figuring it was lady troubles, he relented. “Say no more,” John gestured to the patient cabinet in the room's corner. “Just hand me my Walkman and you’re a free man.”

“Walkman?”

“Yeah. I had it in my coat before. It should be in with my stuff.”

After rummaging through his pricy clothes, he found the blue cassette player and gave it to him. “No, I didn’t think you were into music that much.”

“You kidding? Who doesn’t like music?” John popped in the player’s earphones.

“Just don’t turn it up too loud. It could really mess up your hearing.”

“What’d you say?” He giggled, a grin so big it went from cheek to cheek. “Kidding, kidding. Just go. I’ll catch you later.”

“Alright,” Peter patted John’s forearm. “I’ll see ya.”

John watched him leave, craning his neck to see if Peter would give him one last look, but he lost him after he rounded the corner.

With a yawn and a click of the play button, John let the first few notes of the song take him. When the lyrics kicked in, he hummed along with it, staring at the ceiling until he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and then fell asleep in the middle of the second verse.

_I think it’s strange you never knew..._


	7. Absence

“I don’t doubt Doctor Carter’s abilities, Mark,” Anspaugh said, pacing behind his desk. “I am more than impressed with him. What I’m _not_ impressed with is learning about one of my surgeons working on a patient with a low heart rate and being right on the cusp of collapsing.”

“I take full responsibility for that. I should have been more attentive,” Peter responded. Knowing that this wasn’t good for his career either, his blood and all its warmth left his head and settled in his feet. “If anyone should lose their job, it’s me.”

“No-one is losing their job, Peter. If that were the case, you’d all have to consider looking at other medical facilities. We’re not here for that today. We’re here to discuss what our next move will be. Whether he started the first incision or ran suction, he still worked on that patient, and that is unacceptable. Why wasn’t he in intensive care to begin with?”

“He _was_ ,” Mark replied. “Doctor Weaver here decided to let him leave AMA.”

Kerry shot him a glower. “Apart from being wobbly on his feet–”

“That’s not what Lydia said...”

“He seemed well enough to work. I misjudged.”

“I’m not hearing any suggestions,” Anspaugh retorted and held his arms out. “I’m open for them. Mark, what about you? Anything?”

“I don’t think a sabbatical is wise. The whole reason he came in here early today was so he could have a distraction. Given everything that’s happened to him lately, I don’t believe that being alone, at home, wherever that is, is a good idea.”

“You’re worried he might try something?”

“I am,” he said with a nod. “I don’t see any reason why he can’t continue working. He isn’t a danger to anyone else — you’ve seen him, you know how he is with patients — but to himself? It’s possible.”

“Kerry, do you agree?”

At first, she didn’t respond, knowing that Mark would be disappointed in her answer, but then she realised that it was best if she had her say. So, with a deep breath, she said, “Halfway. I don’t think he should work until he’s better, mentally _and_ physically.”

“I see,” Anspaugh looked to Peter next. “Benton?”

“I’m with Doctor Greene on this. Carter may have been out of it in that surgery room, but he was still alert and lucid. Just... slow.”

Kerry shook her head. “No. I don’t feel comfortable letting him do anything without supervision.”

“I’ll do it,” Mark raised his hand halfway. “He works well with me,  anyway,” Mark slid Kerry a slight firm glower. “Benton will do what he’s always done, I’ll look after him when he covers the ER. Sound good?”

Kerry conceded defeat. “Fine. But if we lose a patient because of him, it’s on both of you.”

“Fair enough. But it’s not happening.”

Anspaugh positioned himself on the edge of his desk. Arms folded, he gave Mark a stern, yet hopeful gaze. “Let’s hope not.”

* * *

Mark walked in just after a nurse left. Worried that something happened, he rushed inside. “Carter? Jeez, you look miserable.”

“Oh, thanks,” John’s voice was a tad hoarse. “You just missed a great performance from my digestive system. FYI, lime _Jell-O_ isn’t good coming up either.”

His stomach turned. It was a good thing he hadn’t eaten yet. “Sorry I didn’t catch it...”

“That’s okay. Wait twelve hours, you might get to see an encore.”

“You’re not keeping anything down?”

“You know what stress does to me,” John chuckled mirthlessly at the irony. “Funny, Benton thought he was protecting my health by keeping me out of that meeting, and I got sick regardless. Speaking of which, how did it go?”

“Okay, I guess. It was shorter than I expected. You still get to work, but you’ll have to be supervised when covering the ER.”

John perked up when he heard the dreaded S word. It wouldn’t be a problem if he were a year-one intern. But he wasn’t. He felt he could hold his own, and he didn’t see a day where that wasn’t the case. Except for day one, when he first met Dennis.

A few seconds had passed and John hadn’t responded; just kept a look of unmitigated confusion and displeasure.

“Carter, did you hear what I said?”

An imperceptible tilt of his head was all he gave him at first. Hearing that he had to be watched over like a child was a slap in the face. He thought they were his friends — he thought they trusted him. Eventually, he said something, “Supervision...” It was more him trying to comprehend it than anything else. “Because of my health?”

“Mental and physical, yes,” Mark replied. “You’ll be supervised by me, though, so that’s something.”

“ _Mental_?” John looked at his left arm, eyes gradually widening. His self-harm wounds. “Did Carol say something to you?”

“No.”

“Really? She didn’t mention anything?” John’s voice, even in his mind, going rampant, nervous that it all could become a thousand times worse if word got out. He didn’t want to wind up in the psych ward simply because he wanted to feel something other than depressed.

“No, why?”

“N– Uh...” John intently stared at his arm, debating showing Peter, but he decided against it in the end. Instead, he rubbed the topside of it. “No reason. Sorry. I can’t think straight. Actually, that’s not true. I can, it’s just only one thing.”

Mark could surmise what that one thing might have been. “Dennis?”

His countenance darkened once more. He couldn’t cry, not because Mark was in the room — he had no problem showing emotions around him — but because he physically couldn’t. Too dehydrated. So, he just held direct eye contact. “He never knew–” Though he laughed quietly for a second time and smiled, neither were out of joy.

The corners of Mark’s eyes crinkled, his lips slightly pursed. What was he talking about? Was it really his place to ask?

“One time,” John lightly grinned as he thought back. “Dennis and I were lucky enough to have eight hours off. We went home and spent five of those eight hours talking rather than sleeping. I remember at one point we got onto music, and he said to me that, while he enjoyed Brandy and Monica, he preferred Mariah Carey.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

John grinned wider. “I know. That’s what I thought. Her voice is so annoying sometimes...”

“I pegged him for a Sade fan.”

“He is,” John crumbled inside, grief taking hold of him and dragging him down. “ _Was_. I’m still not used to saying that.”

Mark hung his head down. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to get to know him. He seemed like a good guy.”

“He was amazing,” Thinking about it felt like a knife to the heart, the blade twisting around inside him. It harkened back to his brother dying. John couldn’t talk about it any longer. “Am I getting out of here anytime soon?” he asked, voice quivering somewhat.

“It’s barely been a day, Carter.”

“I know, I know. Sorry. I’m just going stir crazy here, with nothing to do,” With a sigh, John glared out the door, wishing he could walk out. His eyes then flicked back to Mark. “Hey, is there any news on what’s wrong with me? I know my ECG was inconclusive.”

“Not yet,” Mark said, and checked the monitor. “But your heart rate is improving. I think you’ll be fine.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!” he insisted. Though the doubtful, cynical look John gave him told him he wasn’t convinced. “Okay, I know I may be jumping the gun on this, but given that the ECG was normal, it may be dysautonomia, proceeding with neurocardiogenic syncope. For some reason, your parasympatheic nervous system is overactive, which slows down your blood pressure and heart rate, which then spikes when you move around too much. It explains why you keep collapsing.”

“So, basically I’m screwed.”

“Not necessarily. It can be managed.”

For a moment, John spaced out, overthinking — again. He stopped listening after he heard it. His heart could slow down to nothing, or he could stop breathing, or he could lose consciousness in the middle of a crucial moment. Before he’d been ready to go, but after his talk with Carol, he was terrified of it ending there — he didn’t _want_ _it_ to end there. He couldn’t die, not now.

“If you can avoid certain triggers and–” Mark finally caught sight of his disassociated friend. “Carter, are you here?” He snapped his fingers in front of John’s face, snagging his attention at last. “Hey, you okay?”

He broke eye contact and instead kept his sights on the IV in his arm. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Carter, look at me.”

He did, with tears in his eyes, which he then rubbed away. “Yeah?”

“It can be managed,” he reiterated. “I’m sure the specialists will go over this with you, but exercise can help. Among other things.”

While Mark listed off what he could do to help combat his condition, John closed his eyelids and summoned a deep inhale, holding it in for a few seconds. Turning his head a fraction, as though straining to hear the notes of a song playing in the air, he looked blindly skyward. Then he exhaled just as immense.

Mark went on until he saw him, seemingly bored. “We can do this later.”

“Nah. No, it’s fine. I got it. Exercise and–” Having blocked out what he said earlier, he had no clue what the other thing was. He started waving his hand and wiggling his fingers about like he was trying to get a stray hair off, hoping that doing so would waft it back into his brain.

“Avoiding triggers.”

John snapped his fingers and then pointed at Mark. “That,” He poked the air between them. “Which is?”

“Excessive heat–”

“I live in Chicago.”

“Alcohol consumption–”

“Oh, come on! _Seriously_?” he whined.

“Stress–”

“Doctor Greene, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I work in a hospital.”

“We’ll cut back your hours a bit.”

John got on his feet to move his spindly legs. “Nope, not happening.”

“Carter...” he exhorted.

“Listen,” he started while pacing. “Even if I’ve been on for hours, even if I look like death warmed over me, as you say, and I keel over after treating someone with sinus polyps or something, I’m fine with that. I will have done my job.”

“As long as it’s _after_. But you’ve got to take it easy. We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. Maybe you’re just underactive. Have you been getting enough exercise?”

John levelled a gaze that begged the question, was he serious? “I have been covering Dennis’ shifts since...” Sorrow temporarily closed up his throat, making him unable to finish speaking for a moment. He forced a smile. “No, I haven’t had time.”

“Maybe instead of using the elevator, use the stairs?” Mark offered. “Jogging? I could always use a running buddy.”

“Don’t you have Doug for that?”

“Eh, lately he’s been making it into a race,” Mark’s face mildly lit up when he saw John’s expression soften. He was finally calming his nerves. “Everything will be fine,” he said. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Right?”

“Right,” John’s voice strained as he stretched. The act of it was enough to give him a head rush, however, and he staggered for a few seconds until Mark stabilised him. “I’m okay,” he told him. “Give me a second.”

“You look pale.”

John felt a wave of doom washing over him, and he couldn’t pinpoint why. He’d been feeling it for the last hour. Flashes appeared in his vision. It wasn’t just pre-syncope from standing up, not this time. That would have hit a long time ago, and Mark would’ve been trying to wake him right now. It was something more.

“Carter, what’s wrong?”

John tilted his head as though he had trouble hearing, even understanding him, this person who he thought he never met before in his entire life. His eyes widened, scared of this stranger.

Nothing felt real to him; the room, this man beside him, himself. He was convinced it was all an illusion. Although the scenario felt familiar for some unknown reason.

He panicked. He couldn’t sense anything any more; smell, taste, hear, feel, it was all gone.

In that instant, his posture straightened, yet slightly bent backwards. His head stuck out a bit further like someone was grabbing him by the jaw. Brown eyes bulged, unblinking in the face of that someone.

The pit of his stomach fell. “Oh, sh– Carter!” Mark attempted to move him back into bed, however, he felt that every muscle in John’s body was rigid. There was no moving him — not unless he wanted to break something.

Alarms from the monitor began wailing. John’s breathing and heartbeat dramatically elevated.

“God...” Mark uttered in a petrified murmur. He then loosely held John and shouted, “Someone, help in here!”

A nurse came rushing in, frantically reaching for the latex gloves. “What happened?” she asked. “He was fine a minute ago.”

“Well, now he isn’t,” he snapped. Fear had officially taken over at that moment. “Sorry. It’s a seizure. Petit mal. He needs–”

With a sharp inhale through his nose, John came out of it. Rapidly, he blinked and glanced around the room, at the worried faces. Not unlike a computer rebooting, things slowly came back on; comprehension, senses and memory. At least, the last thing he could recall. John looked Mark dead in the eye, staring silently for a moment. At last, he said, “Hi.”

“Hey. Welcome back, Carter.”

“Did I go someplace?” He looked at the nurse who was currently helping him into bed, moving wires and IVs out of the way.

“You were definitely elsewhere,” Mark replied. “You had a seizure.”

At first, his mouth worked soundlessly, never really forming a full word. A seizure? He couldn’t understand it. Then again, there were about fifty different things he couldn’t understand right now. He had only just recalled the reason he was in the ICU. His slow heartbeat, pumping blood at a low rate. Then, the penny dropped. He wasn’t getting enough oxygenated blood to his brain.

“Oh, God,” John uttered in a distressed moan.

Mark set a comforting hand on John’s chest. “It’s gonna be alright.”

“How is it going to be alright?” John demanded.

He ignored the question, mainly because he didn’t know how to respond. Instead, Mark turned his attention to the nurse. “He needs a head CT.”

Though she knew Mark wasn’t his doctor here, she didn’t disagree with the order. She just couldn’t fill it on his word. “I’ll just get–”

“There’s no time,” Mark interjected. “Look, nurse–”

“Lockhart. And before you chew me out over this, I’m only here because they’re understaffed here. Normally, I’m in OB. I’m sorry, but it’s been a stressful day, and an argument is the last thing I need.”

“Right. Lockhart,” he evenly said, annoyance gradually coming to a boil, worried about the son he never had. “Nobody’s chewing you out. Doctor Carter here had a seizure out of nowhere, possibly because blood isn’t circulating that far up. He needs a CT, and he needs one now, not whenever anyone feels like making the call. I’ll gladly take him to radiology myself if need be, but it needs to be done immediately. Understand?”

There was a brief lull in conversation, if they could call it that.

All John could do was lay back and watch Mark be overbearing. He knew he didn’t mean anything by it — Mark was scared out of his mind, and he couldn’t blame him — but John still got a kick out of him taking charge, as always. Though he didn’t show it. He shifted in his bed and tried not to hold eye contact for too long. It was awkward enough as it was without it.

She didn’t want to fight about it at this point, tired of the day’s bullshit already. “Fine. Take him down.”


	8. Claustrophobic

The CT scanner seemed so much more menacing when he was the patient. He would have given _anything_ to be on the other side of that window. Anything to be where Mark was going to be. He didn’t want to be there. It made him feel sick and alone, but what could he do? It had to be done.

“You okay, Carter?” Mark asked.

John fidgeted with his hospital gown, straightening it out incessantly. “I’ve never been in one of these things before.”

“It’s pretty straightforward. Want me to talk you through it?” A wave of John’s hand was enough of an answer for him. “Alright,” Mark intoned. “But if you get anxious, let us know.”

“Sure,” John answered. “I will.”

“I mean it. No more hiding anything from us.”

_Why not? Benton is._ “You got it,” he lied. Besides, he’d rather not be any more of a burden than he already was.

“You sure you don’t want some Lorazepam?”

“No,” he lied again. “I’m not even sure it would help.”

Mark gave him a thin-lipped smile and nodded. “Okay. Lie back, we’ll get started.”

The feeling of every muscle tensing in anticipation was worse than the actual event itself. That was until he laid back, his head being stuck in a cradle and a protective cover put across his body, and the tube of the machine loomed over him like a giant hand waiting for its plaything. John’s comfort zone disappeared into darkness, waving farewell with a silk handkerchief. He tightly shut his eyes and blocked it out. Deep within the recesses of his brain, memories coalesced, a welcome distraction.

He remembered the way it felt to laugh uncontrollably until he got the hiccups, how amazing it was to be calm for once. He thought of that one time he rolled over onto his stomach and discovered Dennis in bed next to him. That came as a surprise, and it only happened once, unfortunately. A drunken mishap, he told him. Then he pretended he was aloof, when it couldn’t have been farther from the case. Now, he stopped caring, and he hated it. It still didn’t stop him from destroying himself. He didn’t have a reason to stop. It wasn’t about grieving any more. It broke him to be without Dennis, and that left him feeling empty. Worthless.

John started shaking, crying inaudibly. He didn’t even notice he started.

“Doctor Carter,” the technician said over the loudspeaker. “I need you to stop moving, please.”

He couldn’t help it. There was an attempt, an effort to swallow down the lump in his throat. Through his tremors, he whimpered, “I’m sorry.”

Mark leaned over the microphone, pressed a button and spoke into it. “Carter, try to relax.”

Relax? That was a difficult task for someone who was on edge lately, and more to the point, how could he?

He felt something, as if someone were holding his hand. Then, almost instantaneously, John’s anxiety dulled to a degree. With each exhale, his heart thumped hard once and resumed beating quick, gradually slowing. He wanted to panic, but every other part of him became too wiped out to allow it. His mind and body said it was done. Before he knew it, he was falling asleep, although the occasional knocking and whirring from the machine woke him right up.

The noises were becoming unbearable; something about it seemed to amp up John’s unease all over again. He was acutely aware of how trapped he was, which didn’t help. A tendril of fear seized his chest, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still hyperventilate.

“I want out,” John mewled. “ _Now_.”

“Just a few more minutes,” the technician told him in a calm, reassuring tone.

He was able to wheeze out a cheerless laugh. “I know how these scans work. It’s never a few more minutes!”

“Ten to twenty minutes isn’t a few?” Mark asked in jest.

“Shut up, Mark! Get me out!” John howled as the whole of his body trembled, his eyes wide.

Mark turned away from the mic and spoke with the tech. “How much did we get?”

“Not enough. I need ten minutes. At least.”

“Guys?” John called out. “Seriously, I’m not having a good time in here.”

“Get him out, let him take a break for five minutes and we’ll try again.”

The tech flopped back in his seat, rolling his eyes. “Doctor Greene–”

Mark folded his arms. “Have you got somewhere to be?”

As he groaned and pressed the button to extend the scanner’s bed, he mumbled, “Not any more.”

John wasted no time in rolling over the side and moving around the room, frantically shaking his arms as if the motion would break the tension loose from his shoulders, down to his fingertips. The sound of Mark coming in grabbed his attention, and before he could say anything to John, he interjected while gesturing to the machine, “I’m not going back in there.”

“Carter, you had a seizure. That’s not typical with dysautonomia. We have to figure out what’s going on.”

“Do we?” he snapped. “I mean, do you even _know_ it was a seizure? I could have been zoning out.”

Mark declined that notion. “It’s rare for adults, but yes, I do know and no, you weren’t ‘zoning out.’ Trust me. I’ve seen you do that after an eighteen-hour shift. That wasn’t it.”

“Would you do it if it were you?”

“Yes, I would,” Mark replied, crossing his arms for a second time. “Without a doubt.”

A frustrated chuckle spluttered from John’s lips. “I’ll remember that when you have to get one, heaven forbid, and I’ll say, ‘See? It’s not a fun-filled day at the county fair, is it?’”

“I just want to be sure that you’re alright,” he said.

John didn’t want to fight about it; he was too exhausted, too stressed to do it. John admitted defeat with a resigned sigh. “Okay, well, you are gonna have to knock me out.”

Mark gave him a warm smile and squeezed John’s shoulder. “Good call. Versed?”

“I don’t care,” he answered in a moan. John grabbed both sides of his skull and lightly squeezed.

Mark inclined downwards until he met his pained gaze. “Headache?”

“Yeah. It’s not a _tumour_ , though,” he retorted, vexation intertwined with his words. “If that’s what you’re thinking. It’s probably because I haven’t eaten.”

“We can’t exactly rule that out, no,” The longer Mark observed him, the more he noticed how tired he appeared. “As worn out as you are, maybe we won’t have to put you under. We could just wait for you to conk out yourself. _Are_ you okay?”

A sleepy half-smile donned on his face just before his expression dulled once more. “Stupid question, Mark.”

Mark looked down at the floor as he rocked on his feet and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “Right, right. Sorry. Take a few minutes, and I’ll see about getting an IV started for you.”

Ten minutes had elapsed. Finally, Mark came back with a vial of medication in one hand and a syringe in the other.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he said. “There was an emergency, and–” Mark sloughed it off, figuring it didn’t mean much at the moment. “Anyway, I couldn’t get things for an IV, so… injection it is. _Point five_ milligrammes instead, but I’m pulling in some extra in case we have to administer a little more.”

John watched Mark fill the syringe, petrified yet also tempted. Except he should have been more scared of how appealing it was to him, rather than the needle. The bad idea pushed past every voice in his head that told him it was wrong and stood front and centre. He still wanted to die, and since there wasn’t an L-train near, this would have to do.

“Did you hear me, Carter?”

He pulled himself out of his thoughts in an instant and perked up. “Yeah. Yeah, five of… Versed, right?”

“Fentanyl, actually. We were out of Versed,” Mark cleaned the injection site with an alcoholic wipe. “This will probably hit pretty hard, so you might want to lie back before you _fall_ back.”

John lifted his spindly legs one at a time and got himself situated. The needle pierced the skin of his forearm, causing him to wince. He would have whimpered in pain if he cared, but soon it wouldn’t matter.

The door to the scanner’s room opened, and Chuny stepped in. “Doctor Greene?”

“Just a sec,” Mark pulled the syringe back slowly and placed a cotton ball on the needle’s tip in one swift motion. “Hold that there,” he told John, and set the syringe down on a sterile tray. “I’ll be back.”

It wasn’t until he stepped away that she recognised who was on the CT scanner bed. “Why’s Carter in there?”

“None of your business. Come on. Outside.”

He stared at the door closing behind them, then over to the room next to him where the technician would have been, if he weren’t taking a break. Eventually, John’s eyes landed on the syringe, still relatively full of sedative. He could feel himself dropping off, so he quickly and cautiously grabbed it and shot up what remained while he could. He beamed, reviling in anticipation of what was to come. It was already starting to kick in. Taking in a deep breath was the last thing he fully remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger!
> 
> Also, I had to fix a few issues. Originally, I had 5mg. It should have been 0.05mg. I never worked with anaesthetics, I’m sorry about that.


	9. Two Minutes Felt Like Forever

John held on for some time, breathing shallow and stalling. By the time Mark and the technician had returned, he was holding on by a thread. Distracted, Mark didn’t notice his slow breaths, or that there was a syringe missing.

“I think we’re good to go,” Mark said, giving the tech thumbs-up.

Within seconds, he scrolled back inside the CT scanner, which whirred to life once again. Images of John’s brain appeared on the monitor in the other room. Had they been looking at brain activity and not just anomalies, they might have found that it was dwindling down.

Mark watched the screen. Nothing was out of the ordinary, although it was too soon to tell.

A minute had passed — still nothing.

“I don’t see anything,” the tech thought out loud.

“That’s a good thing.”

He bobbed his head from side to side. “Yeah, but I mean I don’t _see anything_. Normally, it’s brighter. Notice how dim the image is?”

“I thought it was just the monitor.”

Near imperceptible, he shook his head. “How much did you give him?”

* * *

_Suddenly, John was at the tracks. Alone. Snow silently fell, coating his hat and jacket. The faint sound of car horns honked occasionally. He didn’t know why he was there, or why he was so afraid, or how long he was going to be there. The urge to break down and cry was intensifying. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. In that moment, he felt a hand rest lightly on his shoulder. It made him jump and gasp. When he wheeled around, he couldn’t believe what he saw. It was Dennis Gant._

_“John? Sorry. What–? What are you doing here?”_

_He stared at his now blurry friend through tears in his eyes. With a sniffle and cracking voice, he asked, “Would you believe me if I said I was in the area?”_

_Dennis snickered, however, his gaiety didn’t last long. Disappointment sagged through him. “You weren’t meant to be here yet,” he said, his voice monotone._

_“Neither were you,” John levelled a half-glare, half-sombre gaze. “God, I mean, we were supposed to– I don’t know! I don’t know what we were supposed to do, but it’s not happening now, is it?”_

_“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t blame you. Or Benton,” Dennis huffed out a cheerless laugh. “It’s weird, these trains. Any other time, they’re always slow or late. But when you’re standing in front of one, realising your mistake, trying to climb off the tracks... they come pretty damn fast and on time then.”_

_Despite his downcast countenance, John managed to smile, to an extent. If only it could be said that he was happy._

_“I am sorry, John,” Dennis’ voice cracked. “If I knew– If I_ thought _about how this would affect you, I wouldn’t have even considered it. Now you’re not sleeping, you’re starving yourself, killing yourself. All because of me.”_

_“Would it have stopped you if you knew?”_

_“Of course it would! I could have saved you, man! I would have.”_

_Either it was hearing Dennis say these things, or perhaps seeing him, period, that made his yearning overwhelming. Whichever it was, it forced John to cut him off with an abrupt, passionate kiss on his full lips. He half expected Dennis to stop him at some point, but he never did. Then again, it may have just been John’s brain orchestrating this whole thing. Whatever was left of it. He didn’t care. It was enough._

_John pulled away gradually, though he remained within breathing space, his eyes locked on Dennis’ gaping mouth. He let himself gaze at him for a little longer, his brain scrambling to establish some sense of what he should say. All he could think of was how amazing it felt._

_“Sorry. It’s just– I’ve waited so long to do that,” John uttered, almost whispering._

_“I thought you never would.”_

_John tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing. “But you’re not–”_

_“Gay?” Dennis ventured. “No. Though... there was something about you.”_

_“Yeah. No, yeah. Yeah, me too,” John said, nearly stammering his words._

_Dennis breathed out an airy chuckle. “Still the nervous wreck I’ve known and loved, I see.”_

_Right as he was about to go in for seconds, a strange sensation burst from his chest to his limbs. It stung, likened to being electrocuted. He wailed in agony, and in a split second, it stopped._

_“What’s wrong?” Dennis asked._

“ _I-I-I don’t know,” John looked at his hands, then his arms, seeing how transparent he became. “What’s happening to–? GAAHH!” He felt it again, stronger this time._

_“I think they’re bringing you back.”_

_“No,” he hastened to say, over and over. He could sense himself being tugged backwards. “I can’t. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to go. Please!”_

_“You have to.”_

_John’s brow furrowed, his chin quivered, and so did the rest of his body. “I can’t lose you again.”_

_“You didn’t lose me,” Taking in his friend’s confused, yet hurting expression, he touched his temple then his chest. “I’ve been here and here the whole time.”_

_He wept, tears re-wetting the spots on his cheeks where previous ones had dried. “It’s not the same.”_

_“No, but... I’m still with you. More than you know.”_

_“I don’t want to go,” What started out as whimpering had become sobbing, then another scream as more electricity shot through his body. Once it stopped, he got his bearings. “I can’t do this without you,” he wheezed out._

_“You’ve got to,” Dennis went to hug him, except he passed through him, as if_ he _was the spirit here. He looked at him, disappointment shining in his rust-brown eyes. “I guess this is it.”_

_One last time, a huge jolt sent him drifting back, his body gradually dissolving from this plane of existence._

_Dennis exhaled deeply, his body wilting slightly. “See you later, John.”_

* * *

His eyelids fluttered open off and on, the likes of Mark and Lydia hovering over him, their faces blurred as if he’d drank the night away. Their voices were indistinct, but in the brief moments of lucidity, he made out certain words; rhythm, Narcan, empty, IV, two minutes, his name. There was a twinge in his chest that seemed to increase. His vision grew foggier by the second as he closed his eyes. In the darkness, he heard whooshing in his ears, akin to a pulse through an ultrasound. He mumbled some incoherent gibberish, which got Mark’s attention.

“Carter?” Mark pressed on his sternum harder to get him to come to. “Open your eyes.”

“I don’t think he wants to,” Lydia glanced over at the clock above the doorway. Thirty past eight in the morning. “Should we bring him back up?”

Half with it, half not, John lethargically uttered something he probably didn’t need to. He didn’t care at that point. “There was... something... about me, Mark,” Another grin formed upon his face, the type you’d get while completely trashed, or drunk on love. “He liked me back.”

“That’s good to hear, Carter,” Mark let loose a huge exhalation he had pent-up for the last minute and a half. “Glad to have you back. Any longer and we would have lost you.”

“I’ve been right here, though,” he said, barely awake. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That much Mark could agree with. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not if he could help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this is what happens during Carter’s near death experience and a bit after, so it's shorter than usual, but also sweeter. Somewhat.


	10. We Are But Your Children

Around nine-seventeen in the morning, a little girl and her mother came into the ER. It was otherwise virtually empty. They had to sidestep Malik and Jerry, who were playing hockey with a package of wrapped up gauze, and would’ve beaned the girl in the head if she hadn’t moved out of the way.

“Oh! Sorry about that,” Jerry said. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yes,” the mother replied. “My daughter needs to see a doctor. I think she may have strep throat.”

“Yeah, sure. Take a seat and I’ll see if our paediatric is around.”

He was, about ten feet away and arguing with Kerry Weaver. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Jerry approached them cautiously. “Doctor Ross?”

“Not now!” Kerry barked. “Doug, you _need_ to fill out this incident report, or–”

“What, or you’ll fire me?” Doug challenged. “What’s to report? An abusive dad got in the way of my fist, again. What else is new?”

“Yes, and how you haven’t been let off yet is beyond me,” She held out the forms in front of him. “You need to fill it out, regardless. Otherwise, legal will come down here, and I’d rather not have them around when there are rumours about Carter’s health.”

He snatched them from her hands. “Fine. Jerry, what did you want?”

“There’s a mother and daughter waiting in chairs. Possible strep throat.”

“Okay, show them to exam one. I’ll be there in a minute,” Doug nervously fiddled with the papers before asking, “How _is_ Carter doing?”

“According to Mark, he had a head CT thirty minutes ago,” Kerry answered. “The results aren’t back yet.”

“Head CT? What happened?”

“He had a seizure.”

Panic froze him in place. “A seizure?”

“It was a petit mal. Listen, see to your patient. We’ll know more when the results come in.”

“Those are usually more common in children, not otherwise healthy twenty-five-year-olds.”

“We’ll know more when the results come in!” Kerry shouted back as she hobbled in the other direction.

He let out a low growl, and eventually, he did what he was told to. Walking past admit, he told Jerry, “Page me when Mark gets back.”

“You got it,” he said with a wink.

The door to the exam room creaked open, and Doug went through. Haleh was already there, waiting. “Hello, I’m Doctor Ross,” he greeted and set the forms down on a countertop. “What’s your name?”

Timidly, the girl replied, “Tina.”

“Hi, Tina. I understand you’ve been having a sore throat.”

She nodded and hoarsely said, “It really hurts.”

“Open up. How long has this been going on?” he asked the mother, checking Tina’s throat and tonsils.

“About a week. I would have come in sooner, but things have been tough lately.”

“Sorry to hear that,” His voice came as soft as his brown-eyed gaze. “Any fever?”

“No.”

Doug backed away. “You can close your mouth now, Tina. It’s not _too_ bad, but it looks like she needs antibiotics. First, my lovely assistant will do a culture, and maybe a strep test. Cultures can take a while, and I’m sure you two want to get back home as soon as possible.”

“Lovely assistant?” Haleh echoed, glaring at him.

“I’m just being honest.”

“Hmm-mmm,” she uttered, suspiciously. “I’m not covering for you. You have to fill those out yourself.”

“I wasn’t–!” Doug scratched the back of his head and neck and tried to keep what little composure he had at the moment. “I would not ask that of you,” Remembering there were other people in the room, he said, “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the mother replied in a chuckle.

“What’s a throat culture?” Tina asked.

“Ah, well, it’s when a doctor or nurse takes a cotton swab and go over the tonsils and throat, so we can get a sample. It’ll be uncomfortable, but it’ll be over before you know it.”

“Will it hurt?”

“It might a little. Your mom can stay the whole time, though. Okay?”  Doug was given the green-light, and took one cotton swab in his hand, while the other held a tongue depressor. “Alright, I need you to lean your head back and open your mouth really wide for me.”

“Does he still work here?” She had to know before she left. Soon after, she did what she was told.

“Tina, come on,” her mother urged. “He needs to focus.”

“No, that’s okay. Who was she talking about?”

“She means the doctor who stayed with her. I think his name was Carter.”

_That sounds about right,_ he thought, lightly grinning _._ “She was here before?”

Tina’s mother nodded. “She and my husband were out trick-or-treating and were hit by a car. He didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Doug wasn’t too sure if he should have said anything, but it also felt wrong to say nothing.

“Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. He finished one swab with no issue and began the second. “Well, as a matter of fact, he does. He’s unfortunately pretty sick, too, right now. But I will see him later. I’ll let him know you asked about him.”

* * *

Right when Mark came back into John’s ICU room, he was greeted by him gathering his belongings. “What are you doing?”

John held his glare for a moment before looking away without a word and continued unpacking.

“You shouldn’t even be up right now. You overdosed on Fentanyl.”

“Did I? I didn’t notice,” John retorted, his voice monotone, and he began dressing himself, shoving one leg into his trousers at a time. “Well, I’m fine now. Apparently, the Narcan worked.”

“You’re anything but fine! Why are you leaving?”

“I assume you called Psych for a consult.”

“I did. It’s protocol.”

A scoff spluttered out of his mouth. “You know what? It’s not. It’s a waste of time, and I’m getting out now before I can’t.”

“They just want to talk, Carter.”

“What about?” he asked while slipping his arms in the sleeves of his button-up and then his pullover. “How everything will be okay if I stuff pills down my throat twice a day?” John put on his coat and straightened it with a rough tug. “The real question is, will that come before or after the ninety-day hold?”

Mark shifted his weight a bit, leaning closer to him from the other side of the bed. “You don’t know that they’ll do that.”

“No, they’ll just tell you to keep me from doing my job. No drugs or sharp objects–”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” Mark gestured at John’s arm. “I saw the cuts. Do you want to die, John?”

That was something he had to think about. He never had to before. Was this how his patients faced the end? If only he could ask them how they decided, then maybe he could have some peace in his life. Maybe, just maybe, giving up would give him that peace. There was something, however, that pulled at him. Something that told him he shouldn’t let go. He felt so conflicted.

Finally, in a cracking voice, he answered, “I don’t know.”

“Do you want us to help you?”

John shuffled back a few steps to the door. “This isn’t helping. This is sending me away so you don’t have to deal with me.”

By now, Mark was having troubles keeping a cool head, but  nevertheless, he did his best. He slid his hands into his doctor’s coat pockets. “Can’t we just talk about this like adults?”

“Ah, so I’m a suicidal, self-mutilating child now,” he said, counting on his fingers. “Got it.”

“Carter, come on. Don’t be like this.”

“Why the hell can’t I be?” John demanded. “I lost someone I... deeply, deeply cared about. I’ll never see him again! I am miserable, Mark! Do I want it to stop? Do I want to get better? Yes, I do, but this is not the way I want to do this. I don’t belong in there!”

“Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere,” Mark took out a pad of paper from one pocket and a pen from another and clicked it. “How do you want to do this?”

Watching him gear up to jot something down made John’s breath hitch for a split second until he spoke. “What’s that for?”

“Just taking some notes. Answer the question.”

He couldn’t. Not when he knew for a fact that he was filling out a competency assessment form. He recognised it from his time doing psychiatric rotations. Just when he thought he couldn’t be more pissed off, he was being lied to right to his face. That just about did it. If he didn’t think he meant well, he probably would have lost his mind. Instead, he kept his calm, though he was screaming in frustration on the inside.

John drew in a deep breath, finally calming down. Then ran his fingers through his greasy hair and settled back against the doorframe. “Right now, I just want to go home. I want to shower, I want to sleep...”

Mark had a disapproving frown. “No, you can’t be alone.”

“Then I’ll stay with someone.”

“Will they be able to watch you all day and night?”

“Mark, for God’s sake, I’m not gonna do it again,” John insisted, his voice nearly breaking from irritation.

“Then tell them that,” Every word coming from Mark’s lips were enunciated. “And you might not have to be put on a hold. You’re acting like it’s written in stone. It’s not.”

“Yet,” he mumbled. After a sharp exhale, John asked, “Can I at least get some air? I’ve never been so sick of hospital smells until right now!”

Mark motioned to the door, silently telling him he could go, then followed him out.

John glanced over his shoulder and saw Mark behind him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I know you’ll bolt,” he said. “I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

“You wanna hold my hand, too?”

Mark held up his hand for him to take, a big grin plastered on his face. The gaze of unmistakable annoyance told him he wasn’t having it. “Oh, come on. Laugh. It might do you some good.”

John said nothing, neither smiling nor giggling.

Panicked and winded, one of the ICU nurses came rushing up to them. “Doctor Greene? ER needs you downstairs. There’s been a massive trauma.”

“Now?” Mark looked over at John. “I kind of–”

“No,” John cut him off. “Just go. I changed my mind.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” he chortled. “Hell, I wish I could join you.”

Mark light-heartedly smacked him on the arm. As he sprinted down the hall, he shouted out, “Next time!”

John didn’t answer back. The corner of his mouth twitched, threatening to turn into a full-on smile, albeit a tiny one. Part of him knew there wouldn’t be a next time, either because he’d made a successful attempt or because he’d quit. He didn’t want to live without Dennis, and he didn’t want to work with people he couldn’t trust.

“Should we get you back to your room?” the nurse asked.

He imperceptibly shook his head, slow, deliberate, the way you did when you were wrestling with the deepest of dilemmas; to obey or disobey. In the end, he chose the latter. “I can’t,” he said, voice low and resolute. Finally, he turned to face her. “I’m, uh– I’m discharged.”

“Do you have the paperwork?”

He hesitated briefly before nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, it should be at the desk,” he lied.

“Okay. Well, good luck with everything.”

A chuckle burst out of him, knowing that he would need it. “Thanks.”

And with that, he walked away, the unspoken satisfaction of having just done the unthinkable stirring within him. Now, he had to get out the building without being seen. With any luck, the trauma they were handling downstairs would keep them distracted.

* * *

Amidst all the chaos, Doug caught something out of the ordinary in the corner of his eye. He thought nothing of it, until he realised what that something was. Recognition slapped Doug in the face like a scornful ex-girlfriend. “Carter?” He drifted closer to him. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

The sound of his voice made John flinch. Frantically, he replied, “I-I-I-I can’t. I can’t be– I gotta go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“Home.”

Doug stuck his arm out in front of John to stop him from leaving. It was then that he noticed how out of breath he was, as if he’d been running. “Hey, hey. What’s going on?”

“I can’t... be here,” he wheezed and sniffled, and over-zealously pointed out the door. “I’m better off.”

He winced along with John, who was huffing and puffing. Doug put an arm around him, pulled the coat he had on over his head and swiftly guided him to an empty exam room. “Come with me. Let me at least check you over before you go.”

“Need any help with that?” Carol asked.

“Nope, got it,” He and John then barged through the door, and he shut the blinds. “Sit down, Carter.”

As he ripped off his jacket, John said, “Lock the door, too.”

“Yeah, sure,” The lock made a small clank when he turned it. “Locking doors, it must be serious. What’d you do?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay...” Doug surmised that it definitely was something serious. “I’m gonna put you on a monitor.”

As soon as he put a finger oximeter on John’s index finger and fired up the monitor, the readings made Doug speechless. His pulse was ninety-seven. John struggled get his heart to relax. Ninety-seven wasn’t bad, but for someone who had been having anything between forty-three and fifty-five, this was higher than he was used to.

“Have you taken anything for–?”

John lethargically shook his head. “Nothing... since I was... treated... initially,” he managed through heavy breaths.

“Is this from you coming from upstairs?”

“I think so,” His tongue darted out to lick his dry lips, and he gulped what little saliva he had produced. “I didn’t even take the stairs. I’ll be fine. I just... need a minute.”

“No, what you need is an oxygen tank. How long has this been going on for?”

Before he answered, John drew in a stuttered breath and tried to let it out slow. “I’ve noticed it within the last month.”

Doug anchored his attention to the monitor, watching his heart attempt to slow down. The corners of his eyes crinkled. A thought occurred to him, one that he should have known from the start. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten again?”

“Three days, since I had a solid meal. Total?” Clocking Doug’s frightful expression, he hesitated for a second. Accepting the inevitable disappointment, he bit the bullet. “Five months.”

“Five months?!” he incredulously echoed, gawking.

“I ate enough to keep from keeling over, but...” John sloughed off a lame shrug. “It started out skipping a meal. Next thing I knew–”

“This is bad, Carter. You know that, don’t you?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. I guess I got caught up in work and forgot and kept going.”

“You’re severely malnourished,” Doug tapped on the monitor’s screen, over his pulse. “Doing this weakened your heart.”

“I didn’t even think of that,” Then it struck him; why didn’t he think of that? It all went spiralling down from there. Why wasn’t he aware of the symptoms? What kind of doctor was he if he couldn’t even diagnose himself? What kind of surgeon? He felt like a failure — a nobody. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Sounds like you weren’t thinking at all. The good news is that it’s reversible.”

“And the bad news?”

“It will take some time,” Doug eased himself down on a stool, and leaned in towards John. “You’ll need doctors, dieticians, mental health professionals...”

John threw his head back. “Oh, my God,” With a harsh exhale, he looked at him once more. “All because I haven’t eaten?”

“You have to be eased back into it. If you don’t, you risk re-feeding syndrome,” Doug’s eyes flicked to a spot on the floor and rubbed the back of his neck, and he muttered, “Which I might have given you already.”

“It’s fine. You didn’t know.”

“You don’t think that’s sad? Horrible? We could have done something!”

“Believe me, you’ve all done enough,” An introspective frown hardened his features. “I didn’t exactly tell anyone either. Guess we all screwed up.”

A quick, warm smile flashed upon Doug’s face. “You know, I saw one of your patients today. Tina Hargrove. Remember her?” He could see he lost him. “Sweet girl. She survived a hit and run, barely, but her dad didn’t. You stayed with her.”

Recollection produced a soft smile. “I lost enough of sleep as it was, but being there was all that mattered.”

“Makes you think, we are their healers, but who heals us when we need it?” For a moment, he stared down at his hands in his lap, then at John, attentively and reassuring. “Well, I can’t necessarily heal you, but I can help you on your way. Let me get you one of those eating disorder info pamphlet... things, and I’ll be back. Okay? Maybe that’ll have something.”

“Yeah, okay,” John crossed his fingers. “Thanks.”

After he left, John’s expression of gratitude washed away like sidewalk chalk in the rain, a blank stare arriving in its wake. He waited a full five seconds before he walked out, his shoes barely making a sound amongst the noises of the ER. John stopped long enough to watch a patient being wheeled into trauma room two, somehow eviscerated. Blood and guts everywhere. Normally, this would make him feel sick, but it made him jealous more than anything else. Oh, how he wished he could help. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t be coming back, of course. He just didn’t know if he would be the same.

He moseyed towards the ambulance bay, passed a rig that doctors and nurses hustled to — something about a car wreck — none of them stopped him; nobody noticed. That was fine by him. He kept his head down and jammed his hands into his pockets.

When he rounded the corner of another building, heading to the car park, he felt it again. A fullness in his head, burning sensations in his chest; he couldn’t catch his breath. The edges of his vision turned white. His body was clearly running out of juice.

Was this a bad idea? Was he really going to hit a wall? In about two seconds, he’d get his answer. John lost his footing and literally hit a wall, face first. There was a sharp ache in his cheekbone, spreading down to his jaw.

“Damn it!” he yelled at no-one in particular, repeatedly. He felt so stupid, and as much as he wanted to stay and curse himself out and lick his wound, he knew he couldn’t.

With a more desperate effort than he needed to have, John moved forward to his car. Despite the increasing, searing pain in his chest and the deep need to vomit, he made the trek to the car park.

Once there, John flopped back against the side of his jeep. He was sure his heart was going to give out at any second, but he was determined to keep going. He puffed out air forcefully past his lips, slumped into the driver’s seat, and forced his eyes shut as he tilted his head back against the headrest. Dozily, he shifted his head and stared out the side window at nothing, spacing out. If he wanted to, he could sleep right there, except security would most likely kick him out. So instead, he started the car. The radio instantly turned on, playing a song he hadn’t heard in weeks. It brought forth a memory, making his eyes well up.

* * *

_It was Saturday. One of those fateful nights both John and Dennis had a break from insidiously long hours and he-who-shall-not-be-mentioned breathing down their necks. While Dennis was making dinner, John just sat at the kitchen island._

_“So, what you’re saying is... you’d rather spend your Christmas with me than with this mystery woman,” Dennis ventured. “Why me, exactly?”_

_“Why not you?” John bit his lower lip momentarily, and Dennis was only vaguely aware of the flushed red that had crossed his face. He ripped his gaze away from him and stared elsewhere, clearing his throat. “Anyway, it’s not just going to be you. My family will be there.”_

_“But you’ll be around me the whole time.”_

_John’s head bobbled as if dangling from an invisible string. “Probably.”_

_“Why not just go out instead then?” Dennis asked, not breaking his attention on chopping up garlic. “Just us.”_

_John slid him a look of curiosity. Surely, this wasn’t a date proposal. Was it? He did have something going with Keaton, whatever that something was, but he wouldn’t say no to Dennis either. In fact, if it weren’t for his flaky, somewhat verbally abusive girlfriend, he would absolutely say yes._

_Dennis finally looked up at him and slightly blushed, too. It was funny to him, how you couldn’t talk to your crush without weird glances at each other._

_“Look, whatever. Dumb idea,” Dennis mumbled, and faced the stove, not bothering to turn around, clearly trying to hide how flushed he was. “Hand me the whisk?”_

_John gladly obliged him, even though said whisk was two feet away from him. He gave him a half-smile along with what he asked for. Avoiding the topic for now, he said, “I didn’t know you cooked.”_

_“I didn’t until you ruined our last meal,” he flung back, a hint of indignation in his tone. Air hissed through his teeth. “Who burns a TV dinner?”_

_John’s only response was a sheepish raise of his hand, which drew out a snicker from Dennis, which then lead to him producing a giggle-snort, something he didn’t do around anyone except Dennis._

_“Alright,” Dennis uttered in a chortle. “Get outta here, or you’ll screw this one up too.”_

_“Now you’re starting to sound like my dad,” Regardless, John did what he was told, but not before snatching a piece of cooked, sweet pork sausage. Voice muffled from his mouth being full, he added, “And it’s not a dumb idea.”_

_Dennis could feel his cheeks pinking up again. He tugged lightly on his earlobe and glanced down at the floor. “No?”_

_“Nah. But we’re still obligated to go to my family’s.”_

_He leaned over the island countertop, grinning at John. “Maybe afterwards.”_

_It wasn’t long before he, too, got closer. A playful smirk threatened to rear its head, but he didn’t allow it to show. Much. “Well, you did see my ass. It’s only fair. Although, I prefer it the other way around,” The pot on the stove snared his attention for a split second, then returned to Dennis. In a flat, unconcerned tone, solely to keep him from panicking, he told him, “Water’s boiling over.”_

_“What?” Responding to John’s indicative nod, Dennis swiftly spun around. “Oh, sh–! Damn!”_

_John couldn’t help but burst into laughter. He just barely held it together when he had a glare shot his way. “Hey, you can’t blame me this time.”_

_“Oh-ho, yes I can. You distracted me,” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as he turned the burner off. “I give up. We’ll never have a decent meal.”_

_“Take out?” John offered._

_“Yeah, why not,” He brought up his hand and pointed at the phone. “Not that Tai place again. I got crazy heartburn after eating that.”_

_“Pizza it is,” he murmured to himself. Just as he was about to go for the phone, it rang. “Hello?” he kindly answered. It didn’t take long for John’s once sunny disposition to turn sour. Without another word, he handed the phone to Dennis and plopped himself down on the sofa._

_It was her. As if he needed a reminder that he had no chance, his nice moment alone with him ruined. It couldn’t have been Dennis’ family or a wrong number, no. It had to be her; Dennis’ girlfriend. John never even met her and he despised her. From the sound of it, their Christmas plans were getting cancelled. He tuned them out and focused more on the music playing. It tempted him to turn up the volume, just out of spite, except he knew it would frustrate Dennis. So he didn’t. In the end, he shut off the radio and went to bed._

_“Hang on,” Dennis spoke into the phone, then put the receiver against his shoulder. “Where are you going? I thought you were hungry.”_

_John didn’t answer right away. He could have said he could do better, that he could be happier without her, knowing that she was nothing but manipulative and selfish. However, he didn’t have it in him to say it. John made something up instead of the truth. “I’m just going to call it a night.”_

_He scrutinised his watch, eyes narrowing. “At seven-thirty on a Saturday?” Dennis faintly heard his girlfriend on the other end. “What? No, I’m here. I wasn’t! That was– Sorry.”_

_Dismay shone in his eyes. While he turned to go to his room, he softly said, “I’m here, too.”_

* * *

John shuddered. If only he could go back in time and do it again. Thinking back, he shouldn’t have picked up the phone, nor should he have gone with Keaton on Christmas Day. He could have just left with him and gone to a restaurant. Many more could-of’s entered his mind, but the fact remained, there was nothing he could do about it now.

John pulled out from his space and drove to the parking attendant. After the mundane task of checking out, rather than turning right, towards home, he turned left, for _Midway International Airport_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer one this time. This is probably one of my favourite chapters. The song referenced in both the title and towards the end is Whisper to a Scream (Birds Fly) by The Icicle Works.


	11. Atlanta Bound

Doug kept his focus on the pamphlets, not noticing that the room was empty. “Okay, I’ve got one from the NEDA and one from the AAC. Take your pick,” After some time, when he didn’t get a response right away, he looked up to see a vacant bed. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He burst through the door and carefully glanced around the ER, under gurneys and desks, despite Haleh, Carol and Jerry occupying it.

“Doctor Ross, I hope you’re not trying to catch a glimpse,” Haleh said, eyeing him wryly.

“ _What are_ you doing?” Carol asked.

“Anyone see the, uh,  _patient_ I had earlier?”

Jerry jerked his thumb in the direction of the sliding entry doors behind him. “I think they left.”

“Oh, great,” Doug muttered.

“Relax, Doug,” Carol soothed. “It was just a gomer.”

As he rushed outside, he said, “It  _wasn’t_ _just_ a gomer.”

“What?” Soon after, Carol followed him. When the blast of cold air hit her, she instantly shivered. “Hey! What do you mean? Who was it?”

“Carol, get back inside.”

“Was it Charlie?”

Doug’s quick moving gradually slowed the moment he realised he was long gone. He threw his fists down to his sides. “Damn it!”

“What? What is it, Doug?”

“He’s gone! I left him for two fricking minutes, and he–!” He began pacing, his arms tightly folded to keep himself warm and from punching something. “Damn it, damn it, _damn it_. He’s gonna die because I left him.”

“Who?”

Doug stopped and intently stared at her. “Promise you won’t say anything to Mark or Weaver.”

Carol shot him a look of scepticism. “What’d you do now?”

“Just promise me, okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” She held up her right hand, as if taking an oath. “Promise.”

His breathing became shallow, prepping himself to confess. He wasn’t sure why he felt nervous; he just was. With one last deep breath, he responded, “Carter came down here. He seemed... I don’t know, panicked? He wanted to go home, but he was off, I could tell. I took him aside to examine him. His heart was in the nineties, he was out of breath. It was like he ran a mile. I left to go get something, and when I came back, he’d disappeared.”

Carol harshly exhaled and covered her eyes, then let her hands drop and rest on her hips. “Oh, God. Okay. Maybe he hasn’t left yet. I’ll have security check for his car.”

The two made their way inside, rubbing their hands to warm up.

“Hey, listen, Mark can’t know about this,” Doug said. “He’s stressed enough as it is.”

“He’s gonna find out somehow.”

Right when they reached the front desk, they heard Mark arguing over the phone.

“Define ‘gone.’”

Carol outstretched her arms, then let them flop down, all while walking backwards. “Told you.”

“Well, if the form isn’t there, he _lied_ _!_ No, I  _don’t_ know if that’s legal.”

Doug, tucked away in the desk's corner, near the CB radio, scratched aimlessly at his arm. “Problems?” He knew damn well there was.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thank you,” Mark hung up. “For nothing,” he mumbled, then gave Doug his undivided attention. “You wouldn’t’ve happened to see Carter around, would you?”

He was about to say no, when he caught sight of Carol gesturing wildly behind Mark, silently telling Doug to be truthful. But that was something he wasn’t capable of. So, he pursed his lips and replied, “Can’t say I have.”

Carol rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air.

“I swear, when he comes back, I am _ going _ to put him in restraints,” Mark growled.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know what else to do,” The two pamphlets Doug was going to give to John laid on the desk. It snared Mark’s interest. “Eating disorders... These for a patient of yours?”

“Yeah. Well, sort of,” Doug’s gaze diverted elsewhere, then back to Mark. “Actually, can we–?” He motioned to the lounge. While they walked through the door, he asked, “Where’s Kerry?”

“Right here,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Sit down. Both of you.”

“Oof,” Mark uttered. “Must be serious if you’re telling us to sit. Usually, it’s the other way around.”

“It is serious,” Doug pulled up a chair and leaned forward. “When you visited him, did you check his chart?”

“I did.”

Kerry’s brow furrowed. “Doug, what’s going on?”

He ignored her question. “Did you see how much he weighed?”

“One-twenty-one.”

“That’s a sixteen BMI. Pretty low for his height, isn’t it?”

“Roughly twenty pounds under the normal weight rage. Why do you ask?”

“I think he might have an eating disorder.”

“Eating disorder,” Kerry had to make sure she heard correctly. “John Truman Carter III. Have you  _seen_ him?”

“Have  _you_? Jesus, he was down here–“

“Wait, what?” Mark interjected, but went unheard.

“Breathing heavily, sweating, shaking, like he was in a damn triathlon. His heart was crying, Uncle, not because of a neurological problem or a heart condition, but because he hasn’t eaten in five months!”

“You said–! Wait, five months?” Mark tried to comprehend it. “ _Five?_ How is he still standing?”

“He ate enough to keep going and stopped completely just three days ago. He claims it was accidental.”

“Well, he either does or doesn’t have an eating disorder,” Kerry said. “There’s no in between. We don’t know that it isn’t neurological. Mark, what did the scan show?”

“No idea,” he replied. “First time he became claustrophobic, second time he...” Mark’s eyes trailed away from Kerry’s and landed on a random spot on the floor. “Attempted suicide.”

In unison, Kerry and Doug just about shrieked, “What?!”

“I gave him something to calm him down, but I had to step out for a few seconds, and–”

Kerry held her head in her hands. Somewhat muffled, she whimpered, “Oh, God.”

“How much?” Doug asked.

“I think there was about two-hundred and fifty microgrammes left after what I gave him.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic,” Her face twisted. “You let him OD and leave!”

“Actually, that was me,” Doug chimed in, raising his hand coyly.

“Why am I not surprised? It’s always you two.”

“Hey, it’s not like I did it on purpose!”

“You both still let him out of your sight!” she snapped, voice nearly cracking. “Mark, you even said it yourself — he needs to be watched.”

Mark hung his head down, as though he were a kid being scolded at by mom. “I know.”

“Get him back here.”

“How?”

“I don’t care. Track him down. Do something other than take the blame and feel sorry for yourselves,” Kerry said with indignation as she hobbled out of the room.

Doug and Mark simply looked at one another, unsure of where to start. Cook County was a large area, and John Carter was but one man in a sea of many.

When Mark was about to suggest something, Carol popped her head in through the door.

“Hey, guys? Security couldn’t find his car,” she stated. “Any idea where he’s staying these days?”

“Maybe try Gant’s number?” Mark offered.

She nodded and backed out. Immediately, she went for the desk phone. “Jerry, what’s Gant’s home number?”

Jerry glanced at her in puzzlement. “Isn’t he a bit... you know?”

“I doubt he’ll answer,” she retorted with another roll of her eyes.

“You never know. I heard about this one guy–“

“Jerry. Number, now!”

“Right,” He rummaged through a box under the desk for a binder with everyone’s phone numbers. Once he found it, he handed the thick, black plastic binder to her with a grunt. “Here. It should still be in there.”

“Thanks,” Carol flipped through the pages until she landed on G. “G-A-N... There,” she spoke to no-one in particular, picked up the phone and dialled. She didn’t know why she bothered. A part of her knew John wouldn’t be there.

The phone rang for what seemed like forever.

Mark’s hand lightly grazed Carol’s shoulders as he walked by. “Anything?”

“No,” She was going to give up, except she heard a beep. “Oh, answering machine. Should I leave a message?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

“Carter?” she said into the receiver. “I don’t know if you’re there, but if you are, pick up. Please? We just want to know that you’re okay. Carter?” Carol waited for a moment, but still no response. “John??”

Mark looked to Haleh. “Where else would he go?”

“How would I know?” she snipped. “I’m not his mother.”

“Try his grandma’s,” Jerry almost mutely said, his mouth full of the brownie he made himself. Meeting everyone’s stunned and confused stare, each of them probably wondering how he came up with that, he shrugged. “What? He’s always talking about her.”

“And what’s  _her _ number?” Mark queried as he reached for a second phone.

“Don’t know.”

Collectively, Doug, Mark and Carol grumbled in various tones of frustration.

“How about his beeper?” Doug jerked his head at Jerry, signalling him to page him.

Carol crossed her arms, a cynical frown forming. “Oh, like he’s gonna answer that.”

At that very moment, a pager went off. They shot Jerry a look.

“That wasn’t me,” he told them.

They each checked their own beepers. It wasn’t any of theirs. After a few seconds of searching, Mark soon found the source, buried under charts. It was John’s. He’d left it on the desk.

Mark sighed. “It’s Benton.”

“Great,” Doug had finally conceded to his defeat. “What do we tell him?”

“Forget him. What the hell do we tell Anspaugh?” Carol added.

Mark’s stomach sank like a rock in water. He hadn’t even begun to wonder about that, until just then. There was no way he’d trust his judgement again, let alone allow John come back to work. Granted, he would supervise him after he got out of ICU, but even then, he couldn’t watch him. How could he later on?

The corner of Carol’s mouth quirked up. “See, if Susan was still here, she probably would have persuaded him to stay.”  
  
That piqued Mark’s interest. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Oh, come on. He had a major league crush on her.”

For some reason, he became jealous. It was silly, really. What was the point when neither were here? No-one to claim, no-one to tell to back off. Still, it bothered him. Mark avoided eye contact with any of them, and fiddled with his stethoscope. “Did he… ever–?”

“I wouldn’t know, Mark,” Carol grinned wide, relishing in the fact that this was getting to him. “I’m not sure she’d go for him. Not her type.”

“What, tall, full head of hair–?”

“And a goober?” she finished.

“I don’t think that means what you think it means,” Doug flatly said and booted up the computer. “Hey, where did Dennis live before he came here?”

“Atlanta, I think?” Haleh guessed. “I know his ex lives there. I heard him and Carter talking.”

“What are you thinking?” Carol studied the screen. “Flights? You’re leaving now?”

“No, but I _think_ …” He typed a few keys, and printed up a copy of the flight list going from Midway to Hartsfield. “I know where he's going.”

* * *

Somehow, amidst the murmuring, the announcements over the intercoms, planes landing and taking off, John was able to sleep, standing upright. He was in a queue for flight tickets, and he was next.

Though the other desk attendant thought it was adorable, the woman beside her wasn’t finding this cute or funny. He‘d been there for a minute, and he was just wasting her time at this point. “Sir!” she barked one last time.

He jolted awake, snorting in a sharp breath, yet still crippled from exhaustion. “Wh-what?”

She glared as she waved him up.

John widened his eyes briefly, in the hopes it would make his bleary vision clearer. It did, only just. “Sorry,” he said with a sigh. “One for Atlanta, Georgia.”

“You lucked out. One seat left. Any luggage?”

Part of him really wanted to be sarcastic and shoot back with something like asking if she saw any luggage, but John merely gave her a soft smile. “No,” he replied, scarcely holding back a tinge of bitterness. “Just me.”

The woman stared back at him, genuinely blase. “I’ll need some ID and your credit card.”

He pulled out his wallet and handed her both cards.

“John Carter,” she read out loud, and arched an eyebrow. “Any relation to the infamous John Carter Jr.?”

His stomach turned, just like it did every time anyone mentioned his father. More so with his mother. Some days he loathed being a Carter. Other days it embarrassed him. Despite his gut doing flips, he told the truth. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Knowing full well how rich he and his family were, she smirked at the seating he would have. As she handed back his cards and gave him a boarding pass, she said, “You’re in coach.”

Much to her chagrin, John didn’t care about their wealth all that much. “That’s fine.”

With that, John made his way to the gate, and took a seat. He waited, staring into space, wondering if this was a good idea. Of course, it was. He would see Dennis again, in a way. Even if he only visited he grave, it still beat being stuck in a psych ward, not seeing anyone at all. This was what he felt was best for him. Maybe this was just grief and it was justifiable, in the end. He never really had the chance to learn how to deal with grief, and he would try to start now.


	12. Undermining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this for a while. Not sure why. I was paranoid that people would say, "Nah, that's stupid!" I guess. Hope it isn't.
> 
> It was also brought to my attention that I posted this on the anniversary of the finale, so there is that. :)

After getting the go ahead from Kerry, Doug and Mark piled into a cab and rushed off to the airport.  
  
As Mark closed the car’s door and situated himself, he asked, “If he’s still there, what are we going to say?”  
  
“Get your ass back here, you crazy son of a bitch?” Doug ventured a guess.  
  
There was a part of him that knew he was joking, but he couldn’t exactly bring himself to disagree with him either. The whole thing felt a little unreal. He knew John could be stubborn, but this was ridiculous.  
  
Without a word to Doug, he nodded to the cab driver and said, “ _Midway International_ , please.”

“What if he’s at _O’Hare_?”

“Kerry has it covered,” Mark flatly responded, studying the list of flights.

Doug shifted to face Mark, eyeing him intently. “How could he do something like this?”

“He’s scared.”

“He’s _sick_ , Mark. We’ll be lucky if he’s still alive when we find him.”

Mark finally met his gaze. “You think I messed up?”

“No, I think you did the right thing.”

“I mean giving him...” He glanced up to see if the cab driver was listening in. Even if he wasn’t, Mark didn’t want to say something he shouldn’t have. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Okay. So, what do we do if he’s _not_ there?” Doug asked.

He dodged the question and fixated on his shuffling feet. “Maybe we should call his family.”

“Mark?”

Once more, he stared him in the eyes. “I don’t know. Drag him back here kicking and screaming, if we have to.”

* * *

On the plane, still on the tarmac, John zoned out, watching as workers loaded up cargo on another aircraft, while others directed more that were coming in. It was almost hypnotising. Or perhaps it was his adrenaline high, dying down. He barely acknowledged the other passengers until the plane moved.

That was always daunting to John; that and landing. He never slept on planes either. Something told him that if he did, it would crash. Stupid? Yes, definitely to some. Not to him. No matter how many times, no matter how many ways he looked at it, he just didn’t buy into the myth that flying wasn’t scary. Just big metal death traps.

Instinct told him to scrunch his eyes shut, gripped on to the armrests and prayed to whatever gods or goddesses he believed in that he’d actually be okay, and reminded himself what he was doing this for.

John started humming to himself; a defence mechanism. It wasn’t any song, just a random tune. John didn’t care that he was getting looks from others. All he cared about was getting through this, one step at a time.

About a minute later, he started to calm down. He listened to the surrounding chatter, the whines and curses and complaints. Not unlike the ER, to be frank. It felt comfortable to him at this point. Familiar.

He checked his watch. “One hour and forty-six minutes to go,” John mumbled to himself, then leaned back further into his seat.

* * *

Mark bolted for the airport entrance, leaving Doug to pay for the cab fare. He ignored the indignant comment he shouted at him and made a mad dash to the front desk.

Out of breath, he managed to ask, “Did... flight two-one-six leave yet?”

The woman at the desk was the same one John dealt with moments earlier. She didn’t bother to verbally respond. However, she pointed to a large, hanging monitor in the middle of the room, a few feet down.

Mark ran over to it while Doug moseyed along behind him. He studied the timetable. The flight they were tracking down had departed early.

“Ah, crap! We missed it.”

“Next one’s in an hour. Looks like we’re going to have to catch a flight of our own,” Doug walked back to the desk. “Two tickets for the three-six-three.”

The woman half-way shook her head, raising her eyebrows briefly. “Atlanta is pretty popular today.”

“You have _no_ idea.”

* * *

It was a further ten minutes after that when John exited the airport, exhausted and slightly nauseous, and headed to the car rental and then the hotel. Nothing too fancy, but not a bad place either, just four miles out.

As he entered his grey, ninety-six Lincoln town car, he thought to himself, _Now what?_

_Sleep, hope I don’t die and then… I don’t know_ , another part of him answered.

John put on his seatbelt, held it in place and then, with a dazed yawn, rolled the window open, quietly asking, “Am I really doing this?”

_Looks like. You’re here now. Might as well make the most of it._

He shrugged, started the car and drove off, tempted to just keep going until there was no road left, leaving everyone and everything behind.

_Maybe after I visit Dennis._

“You don’t really want to do that,” a voice spoke from the back seat; a male’s. “Do you?”  
  
The tone in his words — the disappointment — it just about brought him to tears. He knew it was Dennis again, and it made it all the more painful. John sniffled, wiping his eyes. Maybe it was sleep deprivation, but he felt compelled to reply, even though he was certain it was all in his head. Just like in the ICU, just like in his near death experience.  
  
“No-one trusts me,” John said. “There’s nothing left for me here.”

“What about your grandmother? She’s gonna need you.”

“Oh, what do you know?” he snapped. “You left before you could–”  
  
“Are you sure it was me?”  
  
The implication made his stomach churn. John’s tongue licked the back of his teeth, wanting to form words but couldn’t.

“The guy’s face was mangled. How could you tell?”  
  
This was the last thing John needed. A reminder of that night and the nights that would follow it. He held back bitter tears. “Please,” he whimpered.  
  
“That would mean you helped bury some other guy. That you lied to my family.”  
  
“Then _you_ lied to _me!_ ” John shakily ground out through clenched teeth. “Why are you doing this?”  
  
“Why aren’t you stopping me?”  
  
John closed his eyes for a moment, then mustered up a deep breath. He glared at the road ahead, trying to pin down the source of that vague anger that had been driving him ever since that morning in the hospital. It should’ve been blatantly obvious. He should’ve known it was getting to him, that if he stayed awake any longer than a few more hours, he’d be driving himself crazy. He already had. He didn’t need some stranger getting in his head either. What he didn’t realise was that he was this stranger. He antagonised and undermined himself. Even now, he didn’t get it. Just a figment of his imagination, he’d say.

* * *

“ _Whew_ , I’m beat!” Doug exclaimed, stretching his limbs.

Mark looked at his watch. “It’s only noon.”

“Give me a break. I’ve been on since five this morning.”

“Well,” he said with a grunt as he hefted his suitcase. “I’ve been on since _yesterday_ morning.”

“Okay, you’ve got me beat,” Doug then grabbed his from the conveyor belt while walking beside Mark. “I’m just glad you hauled ass back to yours and mine and got us some stuff.”

“I had a feeling we’d be here a while.”

“You know suicidal tendencies and flight risks aside, I’m glad we’re together again.”

Mark smirked and sarcastically asked, “When did we break up?”

“No, it’s just that we don’t get to do this much these days,” Doug’s suddenly eyes lit up, hopeful to have some fun, so this trip wouldn’t be all serious. “Hey, what if you, me and Carter go to a casino?”

“You heard Weaver. We’re bringing him back. That’s it,” he reprimanded.

Doug pouted, and muttered under his breath, “Teacher’s pet.”

“Delinquent,” he parried. “I’m serious, though. You don’t think I did anything wrong?”

“If you mean do I think you’ll win Doctor of the Year, no. But you did everything else right. Carter is just flipped right now, that’s all. He lost his best friend.”

_That’s not all he lost,_ Mark thought. “I worry about him. He spends more time on his patients and being remorseful for something he couldn’t control than on himself and look what’s happened to him.”

Doug gave him a friendly pat on the back. “We’ll get him turned around. And if not,” He peered around to cheek for bystanders. When there was none to be found, he continued. “I may or may not have packed a G-tube in my carry-on.”

Mark winced in both disdain and concern. “Tell me you’re kidding,” He received a grin that said otherwise, which made him hurry off, as if to show others he didn’t know the man. “No, no. We are _not_ force-feeding him.”

“ _You’re_ not.”

He stopped and spun around. “Doug, we’re not in Guantanamo Bay. We’re not sadists. Let’s not even mention the legality–”

“No, we’re just doctors who stood by and watched Carter torture _himself_ ,” With that, he stormed off.

“You’re ruining our date, you know!” Mark shouted out in an attempt to ease the tension. “Doug!”

Without a word, Doug turned and shot him a glare.

Mark caught up with him. “Car rental place is to the left,” he said, walking past him.

* * *

Roughly an hour later, John came to a house and parked at the curb. He sat in the car for a few moments longer. For some reason, he was nervous. It was as if he was picking up his date for the prom. Looking at the pistachio green sliding and cherry wood door, his heart beat so fast, it felt like it was about to explode. The car door swung open, and John begrudgingly exited.

John made his way to the front entrance. When he did, his hand lingered, cupping his throat with the other. Realising it was a mistake, he turned to walk away. Behind him, he heard the door open.

“Can I help you?” a man asked, his voice somewhat gruff.

He didn’t respond, but he slowly faced him, his mouth agape and eyes welling up. Seeing the look of shock the man had prompted John to, finally, speak. He drew in a sharp breath, and as he shakily let it out, he said, “Hello, Mister Gant.”


	13. Amissa Spe, Taking You With Me

Dennis Gant Snr. rushed to get things tidied up after he let John inside. “Excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting– What _are_ you doing here?”

“I remembered the address, from the wake a few days ago, and– I honestly don’t know,” John replied, wincing as memories resurfaced. Once they subsided, he considered it a moment longer. “Well, I do, but I’m not sure I should have come.”

“Is it about my son?”

His stomach twisted into knots, shoulders tensing up with every second he stood there in the foyer. “It is, actually. Um, maybe we should sit down.”

Dennis agreed, though it made him uneasy. “I’ll get us something to drink,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Water okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” John spotted a family photo on the fireplace mantle. There he was, his best friend, his colleague, Dennis Jnr. It looked fairly recent. “Nice to see him happy.”

He walked back to John, a glass of water in each hand. Dennis Snr. gave one to him and sat down. “Yes. Though I’m not so certain it was authentic now.”

John’s eyes flicked from his water to Dennis Snr., and back, then he took a sip. He was unsure too, but it still was a welcome sight. One that he greatly missed.

“He talked about you a lot.”

That snared John’s attention, just about making him miss the sofa entirely. “Me? _Really_?” Then his face went blank, the reality sinking in that, perhaps, he talked about too much. “Oh, God, did he–?”

“Relax son,” He chuckled. “Me and my friends got into all sorts of things. I expected it. In fact,” Dennis Snr. held up a finger, rose to his feet and headed into another room. Within seconds, he came back with a box. “Dennis’ letters. I thought you’d like to have these.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“It’s okay. Really. I made copies after–” He stopped there before he got choked up.

John, on the other hand, couldn’t help it. He didn’t full-on bawl his eyes out — he’d wait until he got to his hotel room for that — but he did tear up some. John set his glass down on the coffee table and took the box in both hands. “Thanks,” he uttered, almost whispering. “This’ll give me something to read on the flight home.”

“Of course. Now, what’s this about my son?”

“Well,” John popped the box of letters under the table, and then stared earnestly at his friend’s father. “I have some questions, if I may, about your son. You identified the body, correct?”

“As best as I could,” He imperceptibly shrugged. “I don’t have to tell you how–”

John nodded along and held up his hands. “I know. I don’t mean to doubt your judgement, it’s just I can’t help but feel that maybe–”

“– It wasn’t him?” he hazarded a guess.

“Yeah. Maybe I’m still in denial, I don’t know.”

Dennis Snr. dolefully smiled. “I’ve often wondered that, myself. If my boy would really do something like that. But if he didn’t, he would have called. Right?”

It now truthfully struck him that it wasn’t a good idea. It was stupid, if not inconsiderate, to not only bring up a sore subject, but to do something just to make himself feel better. John was more amicable than that, and he knew it.

“You know what? I shouldn’t have– I’m sorry, Mister Gant. I, uh... I should just go,” John plucked up the box, and one last time said, “I’m sorry.”

“Wait.”

John felt a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from leaving. Gradually, he looked at him. A hint of guilt shone in John’s eyes, prior to them rolling back into his head. The cardboard box slipped from his grasp and dropped to the floor, papers spilling out. The next thing to plummet to the floor was John, with a harsh _thud_.

Dennis Snr. tried desperately to wake him to no avail. He felt for a pulse; it was rapid. Moving quickly, he grabbed a throw pillow from the sofa and gently placed it beneath John’s head and rolled him onto his side. He checked his skull for blood. There was none. He was about to call for an ambulance when, suddenly, John came to.

“Doctor Carter,” Dennis Snr. took hold of his forearm. “Are you okay?”

His eyes scanned the room for familiarity. For a few seconds, he couldn’t recall where he was. It dawned on him when he saw the older, six-foot, bearded man hovering over him; he was still at the Gant family’s house.

“I passed out, didn’t I?” John asked.

“I think so.”

“Oh, great,” he moaned. With a grunt, he got back to his feet. Dennis Snr. attempted to help him up, but John declined it. “I’m okay. It happens to me sometimes,” He went on, trying to shake off the sinking feeling that he was getting worse. His stumbling about only confirmed it.

“Easy, son. Sit down and drink some more water.”

He had no problem with that. John held the glass with both of his shaky hands and started out sipping, then eventually gulped it down.

“Do you want me to call someone?”

John nearly choked and spat out his water. “No,” he managed to say in between coughing fits. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t look so good.”

He was right. John appeared sickly pale and had dark patches around his eyes.

John plonked the glass on to a mahogany end table. Some water splashed out just from the force. He wilted into the sofa, desperately wanting to sleep right then and there.

“Maybe you should spend the night.”

“I don’t want to impose,” John said.

“Don’t worry about it. Go. Get yourself cleaned up and take a nap.”

A nice, hot shower, or even a bath, and sleep sounded amazing. Rest and relaxation, something John didn’t get any more. It came with being a surgeon, which he wasn’t at the moment. So, in the rare chance he could, John took advantage of this downtime.

John agreed, slowly got up, and asked, “Where is your bathroom?”

“Upstairs, two doors to the left,” he answered. Dennis Snr. watched him potter off up the stairs, then reached for the phone. He remembered the number for the hospital his son worked at and dialled. He’d gotten someone at the surgery reception desk on the line. “Yes, I have a message for Doctor Benton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roughly translated from Latin, the title means Lost in Hope.


	14. Square One

Peter had just finished up what felt like his thirteenth hernia that month. He traipsed out of the surgical room, exhausted but feeling accomplished, with Angela Hicks following close behind.

“Nice work in there,” Hicks said.

“Thanks,” he replied as he signed a couple of charts another doctor handed to him. “I’ll be glad to have Carter back, though. We’re getting swamped already.”

“Well, we do have a fresh batch of eager med-students coming soon.”

Peter nodded. “Good. We need all the help we can get.”

“Doctor Benton, this came for you,” The desk clerk gave him a written note.

He mumbled something unconsciously. “Now what?” Peter studied the message. Seconds later, his eyes went from narrowed to widened.

“What is it?” Hicks asked. She was uncertain if she wanted to know.

“Carter... He got out.”

“ _What_?” she practically squawked.

“Now he’s at Gant’s father’s place.”

“Why _there_ , of all places?” She didn’t exactly expect an answer. It wasn’t like he knew any more than she did.

“Who knows, but he’s not doing well,” Peter did all he could to not throw something at the wall. His frustration bubbled at his face, blood coursing through his veins. _Why couldn’t he just listen for once_? he asked himself. “Page Doctor Greene,” he told the assistant.

“He’s not here.”

“What about Weaver?”

She nixed that suggestion. “She stepped out, too.”

Hicks leaned over Peter’s shoulder, trying to get a better look at the message. “Is he hurt?”

_Where the hell is everyone_? “Whatever. I’ll page him myself.”

* * *

Mark and Doug scoured hotels near the airport. They had no luck in finding John at any of them; no reservations were made.

They had lunch — if nougaty, peanutty chocolate bars could be considered as lunch — and headed back to their car. Mark’s pager went off out of the blue.

Doug stared down at his friend’s waist. “Um, you’re beeping.”

“Yep,” He checked the number on the display.

“I didn’t know you brought that.”

“Just in case. It’s Benton again. Nine-one-one.”

Doug jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I think I saw a payphone back there.”

“Okay. I’ll be back. Don’t eat my Snickers.”

“Why would I? I have my own.”

Mark scoffed and got out of the car, moseying to the phone booth.

Doug watched him a moment before leaning over and grabbing what little Mark left of his chocolate. He did have the decency of breaking off what he’d bitten off, at least.

Following the tink of a quarter going into the coin slot of the payphone, Mark picked up the receiver and dialled the OR. “Yeah, I’m returning Benton’s page. Well, get him! It was an emergency, wasn’t it? No, don’t–!” Mark groaned and muttered, “Put me on hold.”

It only took a minute for Peter to pick up. “Mark? You still there?”

“Yeah, I am. What’s going on?”

“You’re still in Atlanta?”

Mark nodded, even though Peter couldn’t see it. He verbally responded, “I am.”

“I got a call from Gant’s dad. Carter is there.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know, but you better get over there. I have the address,” he said. “Want me to come with?”

“No, I don’t think this can wait. Just tell me where it is.”

* * *

Some time later, they arrived. Mark studied the outside of the house, and from what he could see, the inside. It appeared empty, but he couldn’t be certain. He hoped it wasn’t.

“Nice place,” Doug piped up after being silent the rest of the drive. “Should I go in with you?”

As he shut off the ignition, Mark replied, “If you insist.”

They stepped out of the van. Doug opened the back door and grabbed his duffle bag, which had various medical equipment.

Mark eyed it with aversion. “You probably won’t need that.”

“You never know...”

“You didn’t _really_ bring a G-tube, did you?”

Raised eyebrows and a thin-lipped smirk were the only response he gave. Doug then knocked on the door.

Moments afterward, Dennis Snr. answered. “Yes?”

“I’m Doug Ross,” he said. “This is Mark Greene. Weren’t you called?”

“Ah, yes. You’re John’s friends.”

“Where is he?” Mark asked before he even got through the doorway, prompting a weary frown from Doug.

Dennis Snr. pointed to the stairs. “In the bath.”

“The bath?” Shocked and almost delighted to get something on him at last, Doug couldn’t fathom it.

Mark, however, felt differently. “I don’t _believe_ this,” he muttered. “So much for following rules,” He didn’t notice Doug following him until he heard the distinct, child-like giggles coming from behind. Mark winced. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“With you,” He chortled. “I’ve gotta see this.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Oh, come on!” Doug griped, holding his arms out.

Mark knocked four times on the door. “Carter?”

No answer.

He knocked again. “Carter, what did I say about heat? C’mon, you don’t want me to barge in,” When he still didn’t get a response, he asked Dennis Snr., “How long has he been in there?”

“Thirty minutes, I think.”

Mark just about had enough. “Carter!” He went to knock once more, but the door flew open before he could.

John stood there, scowling, dripping wet, a towel around his waist. His entire body was flush. Arms folded, he asked, “Scared I cut into myself again?” He outstretched his limbs length-wise, whirled around slowly, so they could see, and then crossed them for the last time. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Despite it being a serious discussion, Doug kept on snickering at the sight of him.

Mark shot him a look, deeply unamused. “Do you mind? We’re having an adult conversation here.”

“Are we?” John asked. “I thought I wasn’t mature enough.”

“Evidently not. Give me your wrist.”

“What?” John was then yanked closer to him as Mark grabbed his wrist. “ _Ahh_! Hey, what–?! You _are_ checking for lacs.”

“I’m checking your pulse,” He soon discovered that it sped up dramatically. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m hot...” He shrugged. “A little shaky and tired, but other than that I feel fine.”

Doug eyed him thoroughly. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“No.”

Given his symptoms in the past, Mark found that hard to believe. “One-twenty-five.”

Oddly placid, John waved it off in dismissal. “It’s from the hot water. I just need to cool off.”

“You can’t be in excessive heat, Carter.”

“So, tell me,” Doug said, grinning. “Were there bubbles?”

“Epsom salts, actually,” John glanced down, then stared deadpan at Mark. “And this towel is about to go, so unless you want to have a conversation while I’m _naked_...”

Mark jerked his head to the bathroom. “Dry off and get dressed. We’re not going anywhere.”

“I didn’t think so,” John mumbled just before shutting the door.

The towel dropped to the damp floor. As it did, John winced. His upper thigh flared with fiery slices of pain. John pulled off a couple of squares of toilet paper and dabbed it on the five-inch-long cut. There wasn’t much blood, but it stung. He looked back at the steak-knife he stole, still in the bathwater.

Temptation sang to him, suggesting another self-inflicted wound wouldn’t be the end of the world. He picked it up, staring at his odd-shaped reflection within it. He couldn’t recognise himself any more. John Carter was long gone. All that remained of him was an empty shell of a man. If anyone could consider him a man after what he did. And if Dennis or even his brother were here, it would disappoint them to see him like this.

So because of that, John never gave in. Rather, he threw the knife into the sink, patted himself dry and dressed in the same clothes he had on when he left hours ago. He made his way downstairs, stopping halfway when he noticed Mark and Doug sitting in the foyer, waiting for him. They truly weren’t going anywhere.

“There you are,” Mark said. “I was starting to think you climbed out the window.”

“Well, I didn’t want to break a leg. I’m not _that_ much of a masochist,” he joked. John’s tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips and breathed through his slightly ajar mouth. “How did you find me?”

Mark curtly nodded at Dennis Snr. “The OR got a call, which was forwarded to me. Why are you here?”

“I wasn’t going to come. But then something in my head–” John rocked on his heels, considering his reply. “Something got me going.”

Mark’s eyebrow furrowed in curiosity, and he made a face, as if he didn’t quite know how to respond.

“I’ll say,” Doug chimed in. “It got you going seven-hundred and fifteen miles away.”

Tired and hungry, John collapsed into a chair, away from everyone else. “I was only going to visit his grave, but then... It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. Doctor Carter seems to think my son might still be alive,” Dennis Snr. said.

Mark gawped at John, dumbfounded. “Are you serious?” he demanded. “There’s no way he could be. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t, obviously,” He gave Dennis Snr. an apologetic gaze. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that.”

“But you might be right. He was hard to identify.”

“Even so,” he began but stopped with a heavy sigh. “Say it’s possible,” Mark leaned forward, closer to John, his palms pressed together and dangling between his knees. “Why would this other guy have his pager?”

“I– I don’t know,” John shrunk back as far as he could in his seat. He felt pressured, like he was being interrogated. “Maybe a mugging?”

“He still would’ve been back the next day.”

“I think, given the circumstances–” Doug stopped there, double-taking on the deceased man’s father. He didn’t want to bring something up that he might not have been aware of, so he chose his next few words carefully. “I don’t think he would have.”

Mark sat in silence for a moment, thinking about this. He could understand John’s denial, the lack of closure and a distressing existence that no-one would ever fully understand why his friend had died. Except he _did_ die, and there was no way around that fact. One day, John would accept it. But he wouldn’t get there without help.

“Look,” Mark said eventually. “Even if he was, would it make anything better? Wouldn’t it hurt more, knowing that he faked it?”

John levelled a sombre glare, directed at Mark. “At least I would know.”

“You’re giving yourself false hope, Carter. Just like you have with his father. And if you’re wrong, how is that fair to anyone? Nothing good can come from this, you know I’m right.”

He did — he just didn’t want to admit it. John had a good faith belief that Dennis was still out there. Would he be upset if he found him? Was it a long shot? Yes. Was it possible his brain was lying to him? Probably. Was it worth an investment of time to make sure? Definitely.

“I’m sorry Doctor Greene, but I have to see this through,” John hauled himself to his feet and headed for the door. “Maybe you should go back to Chicago. Sorry to bother you, Mister Gant.”

“No bother at all,” Dennis Snr. smiled gently. “Let me know if you find anything.”

“I will.”

The door creaked open, though John never heard it close. That was because Mark was rushing after him. He knew this, but he didn’t care enough to look back.

“Carter!”

“Nope,” he said with a single wave of his hand.

“You’re not thinking straight.”

“Thinking straight? I’ve never thought straighter in my life, Mark,” John heaved himself into his rented car, leaving the door open. Briefly, he bit his lower lip and raised his eyebrows. “Last chance for you to join me.”

“Carter, we can’t–”

“Oh, come on,” he whined. “You, me and Doug? We never do things together.”

Mark reached in and pulled the keys out of the ignition. Ignoring the annoyed protests from John, he stuffed the keys into his pocket and said, “You’re not doing _anything_ other than coming back to Chicago with us.”

There was no denying it — Mark was right. No way could he keep going on like this, running on empty and starving. John would pass out before he could find any leads.

John slumped back in the driver’s seat. _Damn_ , he thought. _No getting out of this._ Vacantly, he stared at Mark for the longest time, searching his mind for a reason to fight. But there wasn’t one. He was out of options and excuses.

“Go back in there, and tell his father that you won’t do anything.”

He gave up. John got out of the car and sauntered back to the house with all the energy and motivation of a man who had been running for miles in terrible, unnatural heat and humidity. After Doug left and squeaked by him, he popped in.

John didn’t need to say anything to Dennis’ father for him to understand. The remorseful expression did it all. “You’re not looking for him, are you?” Dennis Snr. asked.

Silently, he said no, then gave a concise half-smile. “I’m sorry, Mister Gant. I let my thoughts get the best of me, and...” John’s words trailed off. He rubbed his knuckles against one another. He wanted to speak, but in truth, he didn’t know what he could say that hadn’t been already.

“That’s okay. Your friend is right. There is no chance he’s out there.”

“Oh, I think he might be. Just,” John’s eyes glanced upward, as though looking at something only he could see, somewhat grinning. “Not in the way we were hoping. I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” He caught sight of the box of letters still under the coffee table. “Oh,” Dennis Snr. picked it up and handed it to John. “Don’t forget about these.”

“Right,” John breathed off a nervous titter, abashed and flustered by where his head was, then took them off his hands. “Thanks,” he said, and walked away. As he dawdled towards Mark and Doug, he lowered his head, avoiding their looks of concern.

“Where are you staying?” Doug asked.

“Nowhere,” Before John slid back into his car, he spun around to face them. “Do you think I could stay with you guys?”

“That’s the plan.”

_Of course it is_. John huffed out a contemptible chuckle. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take care of something first.”

Annoyed, Mark shot him a look. “You’re _not_ going out searching for–”

“No, I’m not. I just... need to go someplace,” Clocking the scepticism glowing in his eyes, John held up his hands, as if to explain that he would not cause any trouble. “One hour, that’s all I need.”

Uncertainty lied between Mark and Doug. The two stared at each, one silently asking if he should let John go, the other saying yes with a yet another smirk.

“Fine,” With a sigh, Mark conceded to defeat. “Call when you’re finished. We’ll come get you.”

“Will do,” he acknowledged with a short, two-fingered salute, then got into his car.

Mark and Doug drove away first, then John. Although if any of them stuck around for just a few seconds longer, they would have seen that he was right.

After the vehicles obscuring his view had moved, Dennis Snr. saw him. His son, just as astounded as his father.


	15. Hasta Mañana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one.

John stood before a calf-high headstone, Dennis Gant’s, staring at it, angry, depressed, remorseful. He eased himself on to his knees, all the while keeping his eyes trained on what remained of his friend. It amazed him how well kept it was. Then again, it had barely been a week since he was last here. Not much time for things to change.

“I’m back,” he said, barely keeping it together. “Sick of me yet?” John issued a cough, trying to clear the lump in his throat, and harshly let out a breath. It produced a fine mist before it dissipated. “I don’t know why I’m holding it in. You’ve seen me cry. Guess I’m saving you from–“ Those last few words did it. “I _didn’t_ save you. And I know you’re saying, ‘I didn’t need saving,’ or ‘John, stop beating yourself up over this. It’s not your fault.’ I know you didn’t, and I can’t. I’m always going to, from now until the day I die,” He snickered mirthlessly. “Probably when I’m dead, too.”

“I just wanted to say… I love you. Maybe you know already,” John’s wet eyes shrunk, forcing some tears out. “Or maybe you don’t, and what I went through was just a hallucination, but... I do. I’m not even– It was only you. If that makes sense. Now I wish I said something sooner, or better yet, just been a good friend, to begin with. I didn’t listen, I was aloof. Truth is, I was jealous, and couldn’t stand to hear about your girlfriend for another second. Well,” John sloughed off his confessions. “Too little too late to make it right now, huh?”

He sniffled, nasty post-nasal drip tickling and draining down the back of his throat. With his nose clogged up, he had no choice but to breathe in the frigid winter’s air through his mouth. As seconds passed, it became harder to avoid breaking down.

John leaned until his forehead pressed up against the grave marker and sobbed. He shivered, from both emotions and the cold. He stayed that way for two minutes, and eventually decided it was time to let go, in more ways than one.

When John finally tore himself away and caught his breath, he stumbled backwards, that dizzying sensation plaguing him again. He used Dennis’ plaque stabilise himself. It then hit him. He found a reason to keep going, a reason to save himself, a person who kept him stable long after he’d gone.

“I won’t let you down again.”

Before he could leave, a sudden, loud buzzing sound occurred, as if a fly whizzed past him. Naturally, he swatted it away, but it persisted for a few seconds more, then stopped just as quickly as it came on. John scrutinised the area for the bug, except there was none. There wouldn’t be in the dead of winter. His fingers lingered in the air, right in front of his ear, awe gradually glistening in his eyes. Was it a sign? He didn’t really believe in them, but perhaps he could start.


	16. When He Died, So Did I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one wasn’t supposed to be posted yet — pressed the wrong button — but here it is anyway. Enjoy!

Now in a small, dimly lit diner, not unlike _Doc Magoo’s_ , the three had regrouped and took a load off. Crammed into one side of the booth was Mark and Doug, while John sat alone on the other.

The waitress gave them each a glass of water, which John thoroughly enjoyed. Food was the last thing on his mind. The sight of the other customer’s dishes made him queasy. The smells, the sounds of chewing was debilitating. Just as he was about to get up and go for some fresh air, Doug spoke up.

“Hey. Do you think this ‘fish and chips’ actually has fish in it?”

“If it does, I would stick with the chips,” Mark replied. Looking up from his provided menu, he caught sight of a green-looking John Carter, giving every impression that he would throw up right then and there. “You okay?”

John shook his head, staring at the floor in disgust. “What do you think?”

“I think you should eat something, Carter,” Mark urged. “How about some soup?”

“I’m actually not hungry,” John pushed the menu away from his sights. “I’m exhausted, I have a splitting headache and I feel sick to my stomach. There’s no way I’m eating.”

“If you don’t–”

“I’ll die?” With a humourless chuckle, he said, “I’m dead in ten years, anyway. What’s the point? Besides, I feel better when I don’t eat.”

“It’s ketosis. Your brain is using ketone bodies for energy, coupled with a slower metabolism. So, you have more energy that isn’t getting wasted,” Taking notice of the occasional jerk of John’s head prompted a question. “How long has that been going on for?”

“What?”

Mark pointed to his own skull. “The head thing.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Might’ve been after I hit it.”

Nearly choking on his water, Doug went into a coughing fit. In between his mild hacking, he asked, “When did _that_ happen?”

“Back at the hospital — I’m not even sure. Think I blacked it out. I got sick and felt weak. I collapsed. I _didn’t_ pass out, but a few hours later, I noticed a sore spot on my temple. No blood, just tender.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Mark demanded.

Suddenly, John felt like he was a teen trying to explain how his uptight dad’s new, fancy car got wrecked, and in the midst of it, he completely forgot how to speak.

“Carter, you know better than to leave a head trauma untreated, minor or not.”

“Well, at least it was me and not a patient,” John said, nervously laughing. After observing Mark’s displeasure, he shifted awkwardly at his side of the booth. “Sorry.”

Mark clasped his hands and rested them on the table and leaned over. “Don’t be sorry. Just talk to us. We’re not the enemy here.”

“It’s not like I can tell. You’re always angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. None of us are,” Mark gestured to Doug. “It’s just frustrating, watching you do this to yourself with no regard for your health. You’re an amazing, smart guy who I know for a _fact_ could do great things if you’d just take things slow and not be so tough on yourself.”

“Doesn’t self-loathing and long hours come with the job?” he asked in jest. John then shrugged. “Look, Dennis died, I stopped caring about myself. Nothing will change that. No amount of trying to talk me into drinking clear liquids for the next week, just so I might function enough to hand you a syringe of Haldol or to look over charts.”

“We could try it Doug’s way; it involves a sedative, a G-tube and a six-pack of protein shakes.”

Knowing Doug Ross as he did, he had no doubt he would do it. “Tomato basil?” he offered and tried not to gag.

“No, it has to be clear liquids for now, kid,” Doug answered.

John scoffed. “Great, so chicken, hold the chicken, veggies and noodles.”

“Pretty much.”

Another waitress walked up to them, pen and notepad in hand. “You guys ready to order?”

As Mark gave their dinner preferences, someone snared John’s attention, someone he wasn’t expecting to see here. “Doctor Benton?” he uttered, trying not to let his voice squeak.

Mark glanced at his watch. “He’s early.”

“You called him?” John enjoined, a glare on his face.

“He’s taking over. We’re taking a red-eye while you two drive back.”

Doug nudged Mark in the side. “He just doesn’t like road trips.”

“It’s _nine_ hours,” Mark griped.

Ignoring their bickering, a scorning, frustrated laugh escaped John’s lips as well as a few mumbled swears as he clambered out of the booth. He would have made it out of the diner if Peter hadn’t blocked the door.

“Leaving already?” Peter kept his hands on his hips.

For a long time, John scowled at him, eventually tearing his hide-peeling gaze away and fixing it on Mark and Doug. “Unbelievable. It’s bad enough you guys came here, you had to send in the cavalry?”

“I figured you were more apt to listen to him,” Mark explained.

“I see what this is. You’re drunk.”

“No.”

“Well, it’s the only explanation that makes any sense!” John shouted. He didn’t care if he made a scene.

“Carter, come here,” Doug waved him back over. “Sit down.”

After fuming for a few seconds, John relented and plopped down into the booth and scooted closer to the window, making room for Peter.

Doug asked, “You want anything?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Peter looked over at John, sensing just how pissed off and leery of him he was. “Carter, I’m just trying to help.”

Nodding along, John glanced around for a moment. He saw plenty of people enjoying the show and he offered a few feigned complimentary nudges toward the tables, inwardly thinking they should mind their own damn business. “Well, this isn’t helpful,” he finally spoke, almost whispering. “You’re ganging up on me. And unless you _want_ to get on my bad side, I suggest you back off.”

For all but a moment, they took him seriously, then broke into giggles and scoffs.

“What??” John demanded in affront.

Peter motioned his head at John. “He hasn’t eaten yet, has he?”

Both Mark and Doug silently replied no, but only Mark gave a verbal answer soon after that. “Nope, not yet.”

“Ah, that explains it,” Peter said. “He gets delusional when he hasn’t eaten.”

With a roll of his eyes, John remarked, “Ha-ha, yes. Let’s make fun of the quiet guy. Just remember, they’re the ones you least expect.”

“Okay, Carter,” Mark soothed. “We’ll drop it. Just four guys, having a late breakfast, alright? No teasing.”

“Sure, yeah,” Doug spoke into his glass of water, snickering and with a semi-restrained grin still plastered on his face.

And after a few minutes of silence…

“I can’t believe you don’t think I could take you,” John blurted out.

Air hissed out through Peter’s full lips. “Carter, you couldn’t kick a plant’s ass.”

“I punched Dale once.”

With a shrug, Peter asked, “So?”

“So, don’t piss me off.”

The waitress plonked down their respective meals in front of them, causing John’s broth to splash over the side of the bowl.

“Just eat your damn soup, Carter.”

“Okay,” he intoned, then muttered under his breath, “It’s hardly _soup_ , but–”

“ _Carter!_ ”

There it was; the same sharp, aggravated tone John should have been used to by now. It still startled him. Even more so now, when his nerves were shot. Who knew that to starve oneself could make a person so jumpy, so on edge.

Afterwards, they made their way out of the diner and to their cars. The forenoon air was crisp, especially to John. He began to feel dizzy once more, his limbs shaking profusely as though he was freezing to death, and collapsed inside the passenger side of Peter’s rental.

“There’s some Atropine and Dopamine in the bag,” Mark stated as he handed it over to Peter. “Just in case something happens. I hope you won’t need it.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said, almost devoid of emotion. It deeply worried him that either drug was even considered. John was a healthy young man, or so he thought. Except that didn’t seem to be the case now, and he couldn’t understand why, even though it was explained to him. _Why would he do this to himself?_ he wondered.

Once he got situated inside, Peter glanced at John, forking out no interest to his wellbeing. At least, not until he did a double-take. “Carter?”

Al John could manage to do was hum out a moan.

“You okay?” The fact that his colleague sat there, slumped and hyperventilating, should have told him John was anything but okay. He still wanted to know. “Carter, talk to me.”

“I’m alright,” John weakly responded, while Peter checked his pulse. “I just need a minute.”

“One-hundred and one. All you did was walk from the diner to the car,” Peter looked beyond him, trying to do the math in his head. “That’s, what, fifteen feet?”

John sloughed it off, not knowing what to tell him, and wheezed out a short laugh. “You should see me when I use the stairs.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I _know_ it’s not, it’s _pathetic_ , but what else can I do about it? Feel sorry for myself?” Near imperceptible, John denied the idea. “I’m done with that.”

“Seems that’s not the only thing you’re done with.”

“Can we not do this now, please? I just want to go home.”

“No problem with that,” Peter mumbled, shaking his head.


	17. Stupidly Hopeful

They had been on the road for an hour. The time on the car’s radio read eleven-sixteen in the morning. If he was working in the ER, John would probably be picking up his fifteenth chart by now, and Kerry would be yelling at him because he wasn’t doing it fast enough.

He was almost going to miss this. Maybe when he took some time off, he could do it properly; no worries, no-one else dragging him down, just himself, music and sleep, once he made it to the nearest hotel. Just maybe.

Briefly, Peter took his eyes off the road to glance at John, who had that brooding look he’d sometimes get. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking... I should have ran faster when I left Chicago,” he replied.

“Come on, you don’t mean that.”

“That’s alright. I don’t think my heart could take it, anyway,” John stared up and out the passenger side window, head tilted back against the door with his hands behind his skull, watching the clouds go by as they drove. He used to do this as a child when coming back from visiting his ‘gamma.’ He’d keep his eyes trained on the skies, tuning out the arguments, wishing his brother would come and take him with him. Now, he leaned further until he was against the window, his head bumping into the cold glass every time they hit a small pothole. It hurt, but he didn’t much care. Without realising it, he said, “I’m not sure it _ever_ could.”

“Have you had this for a while?”

John shifted his head to fix his gaze on him, his eyebrows lifting for a moment. “My heart problem? Not really, no. Unless you consider six months a while.”

“I would consider it that, yeah.”

“It only just started getting worse.”

Peter jerked his head at John’s chest. “What’s it at now?”

“Uh,” Putting a finger on his neck, he checked. “Sixty-one.”

“That’s better. Keep checking every hour. How do you feel?”

“Okay,” With a little slapping noise, his clasped hands dropped to his lap. “I’m very tired. Hey, can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

As he moved his hands in a way that made it seem as if he was working an invisible _Rubik’s Cube_ , John chose his next words carefully, as to not freak him out. “Hypothetically... if you liked a guy — and I mean _liked_ , just _one_ guy — but ninety percent of the time you’re attracted to women, what does that make you?”

Peter’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing. “Carter, what are you trying to tell me?”

“Just answer the question.”

“It’s just that I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask.”

“Hazard a guess?” John offered.

“One guy?”

“Yes.”

“Mainly women?”

“Mm-hm.”

Peter shrugged, keeping his hands on the wheel. “I don’t know. Bisexual, I guess?”

“That’s what I thought...” John rubbed his chin, then pinched his lower lip.

“Why are you asking me this?” Suddenly, the answer dawned on him. “Wait, are you–?”

Without giving a verbal reply, John grinned innocently, biting his lip.

“You’re bisexual?”

“I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure it all out. It’s either that or I’m stupidly hopeful.”

Something in Peter knew it already. A small tell gave it away, one he couldn’t  quite pinpoint. It was simply an impression he got. For all that, it still took him by surprise.

After seconds of not saying anything, Peter figured he should speak up before John got the suspicion that he wasn’t accepting of his newfound sexuality. “So, who’s the guy?”

“Well, it’s not _you_ ,” he responded with a tiny smirk.

“I gathered that, but who?”

John did all he could to avoid direct eye contact; staring down at his own thighs, picking nervously at his dark-coloured jeans. “It, um... It doesn’t matter. I’m not even sure he felt the same.”

“Carter, don’t take this the wrong way, but he would be stupid not to.”

John’s face lit up. “Really?” he asked, his voice going up in pitch.

Ever so slightly, Peter had to chuckle at the elated expression he had. It was a sight he missed, though he’d never admit it. “Yeah, Carter. Really.”

Beaming, John could hardly believe him, and even made a mental note to remind himself. He _was_ a good catch after all. Not a failure or a wimp or anything like that. Just a good guy with a knack for screwing things up, but he was working on that.

“Well, uh,” He paused to gather his thoughts as he shifted in the passenger seat and cleared his throat awkwardly, needing to get the words out without seeming too excited. Praise and genuine compliments were rare around Peter Benton, so it took him a second to find the right words. “Thanks. I think.”

“I mean, I’m not sentimental by any means, but contrary to popular belief, I’m not a complete prick, either,” Not realising that John had a hard time keeping his eyes open, he kept running his mouth. “I’m just– Believe it or not, I want you to be happy. So if being with this other guy would make you happy, I say go for it.”

He received no response from John, who had the earmarks of someone trying to follow through on some kind of clear cognition, forcing himself to stay awake.

Staring at the sleeve of his shirt, he noticed depth perception was way off. John could hear this whooshing sound in his left ear, in conjunction with his heartbeat. It _was_ his heartbeat, but it sounded more like his brain shouting at him to come back to reality. He refused to. Just before falling and staying asleep, he mumbled something incoherent and reached out for Peter’s arm. Except he missed entirely.

The light thunk his hand made against the plastic arm rest between the driver and passenger seat snared Peter’s attention. Once he finally took in that John was almost out of it, his stomach sank. “Carter?” With one hand on the wheel, the other gently shook him. “Carter, wake up.”

It wasn’t working. Peter pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car. After unlatching and pushing off his seatbelt, he hovered over John, searching for a pulse and checking his breathing. Both were there, but slow.

“Now what the hell?” Peter muttered to no-one but himself. At no point did Mark or Doug mention it could be hard to rouse him, so this didn’t make any sense. No signs of trauma, no harmful chemicals in the air. He pulled back John’s eyelids to examine his pupils; both equal and reactive. Still, something was off, and he didn’t like it. “Carter, open your eyes!” Peter shouted right into his colleague’s ear. Still no response. Not even a twitch. “Come on, man, wake up!” By now, Peter had the rare quaver added to his voice, overcome with emotion. He didn’t want to lose him, not like this. Not _ever_.

He pressed on a latch on the underside of the seat, which then flopped back until John laid horizontal. Peter tried painful stimuli, pressing hard on John’s sternum. That didn’t work either. It was as if he entered a comatose state for no reason at all.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. John desperately wanted to come out of it, but he physically couldn’t. He could hear and feel Peter trying to get him to open his eyes, yet it seemed impossible. It scared the hell out of him, feeling like he was dead and aware at the same time. Then everything stopped. No sensations of any sort. As far as he could tell, he was alive, but only just.

Without a second thought, Peter strapped back in, started the car and sped off to the nearest hospital. He knew it would be a miracle just to find one, let alone make it in time.

By another miracle, with a gasp of much-needed air having had very little for a while, John jolted awake as mysteriously as he dropped off. Frantically, he tried grabbing on to something, if only to ground himself.

The car came to a screeching halt in the middle of the interstate, tearing up the road and temporarily cutting off traffic. Other drivers honked their horns and yelled obscenities; Peter couldn't care less.

“Oh, shit,” Peter muttered. Grunting, he carefully set John upright. “Are you alright?”

John slapped his palm on the window, hoping the sensation of the cold glass would calm his nerves. “What happened?” he moaned through his rapid breaths.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t wake you,” He looked him over, noting the shaking and fear in his eyes. So, he attempted to say something relaxing. “You’re, uh– It’s okay. You’re okay now. I’m gonna get you some help, alright?”

“What?” John asked. He couldn’t understand a word he said.

“I’m taking you to a hospital,” he clarified. It didn’t appear to be helping. “Carter, can you hear me?”

Slowly and imperceptibly, he shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t hear you.”

 _That answers that_ , he thought. Peter gave up and drove off once more.


	18. Back in the ER

The car stopped sharply at the hospital’s loading and unloading zone. Peter rushed out and darted to the other side to help John.

He couldn’t understand anything; Peter’s actions and reactions, where they were or why they were there. John’s shrunken eyes stared into his. “This is– What are we doing?” he asked, voice slow and slurred to a degree.

“C’mon. Work with me here,” As gently as possible, Peter pulled John towards him. “I’ve gotta get you inside.”

Once again, his chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. Panic engulfed him and he wasn’t even sure why. The primal fight or flight kicked in without reason. “Don’t touch me!” he snapped at him. John gripped at his tightening chest. His left arm became virtually useless, aching and numb.

“Carter, I think you’re having an MI,” In hindsight, Peter knew full well it was a dumb statement — of course, John knew he was having a heart attack, he wasn’t stupid — but regardless, he had to say it, if for no other reason than to tell himself that it was nothing that couldn’t be easily remedied, but only if they hauled ass into the hospital.

Reluctantly, John agreed to get out of the car, on the condition that he did it himself. It was a huge endeavour, but he managed it in the end. Both he and Peter walked through the sliding doors, then stopped at multiple rows of chairs.

“Okay,” Peter put his hands on John’s shoulders and intently looked him dead in the eye. “You stay here. I’ll park the car,” His instructions still fell on deaf ears. “Carter, go to the admit desk.”

John stood there, eyes narrowed, struggling to comprehend. “What?”

“Oh, God,” he uttered in a tone that suggested he had about enough of this. “Okay, um,” Spotting an admissions desk clerk, he rushed up to them. “Excuse me. My, uh, friend is having a heart attack. He–” Peter pointed at John, only for his finger to brush against something right behind him.

“Owwuch!”

Peter whirled around and was startled and then irked to see John right there. “Carter, what the hell are you doing?”

Rubbing his cheek, barely concealing the deep, red mark that had already formed on his face, John said in a hurried, pained voice, “Can we go? I’m better now.”

“You’re friend here says you were having a heart attack,” the lady behind the desk responded. “What’s your name?”

“John Carter,” Peter answered for him, while John kept talking over him, making justifications.

“What?” he wheezed out in disbelief. “No, no, no. I didn’t. It was just stress. I’m fine.”

“Oh, yeah?” Peter asked. “How do you explain not being able to be roused? Or losing your hearing?”

John counted on two of his fingers. “High blood pressure,” Lingering on the second excuse, he had troubles actually coming up with one. Then a light bulb flicked on. “Deep sleep.”

_That’s... all you could come up with?_

_I’m sure they’ll buy it. Right?_

Both of them slid John a gaze of scepticism.

The corner of John’s mouth twisted and down-turned, forming a half-frown. _Nope_.

“Still,” the woman said. “I don’t like the sound of those symptoms. Just have a seat over there,” She gestured to an empty bed and gave Peter a clipboard with some forms. “I’ll have a nurse and doctor come and look him over.”

Following a curt nod, Peter took John by the arm and led him towards it. It wasn’t long before he pulled away from his grasp. “Carter, don’t do this. You’re obviously not well.”

Whinging on like a pissed off teenager, he replied, “I don’t want to stay. I’d rather go home.”

“And you will. Soon as you get the all-clear.”

John held his hardened, furious gaze for a long time before he walked away without another word, caving in to his request. At least he could get some rest, perhaps.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” John asked, nearly snipping at him again. “A child?”

“Yeah.”

“Where have I heard _that_ before?” After he crumpled down on the bed, he desperately tried to catch his breath. The walk from the admit desk to the curtain areas, which had to have been around twenty feet, made him winded. If he had the energy to curse him out, he would have. Instead, John stared blankly ahead. “Listen, I’m tired, weak, cold, hot, I have a headache and this is honestly the last place I want to be. Could you give me a break, please?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Yeah, yeah. So does everyone else,” he muttered under his breath. At that moment, he felt immensely uncomfortable down south. He shifted in bed, hoping it would ease the tension.

Peter looked up from the forms and noticed his squirming. “Now what is it?”

“I have to pee,” he answered with a discomfited grimace.

“Sure you do. Now, help me fill these out.”

“I do!” His voice faltered, almost shrinking.

“You’re not leaving that bed,” Peter commanded.

“Seriously, you’re not going to let me go to the bathroom when I legitimately have to?” Going off the nod he received in return, he rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine. I’m sure housekeeping will _love_ to clean up after me.”

“That _is_ their job. Any known allergies?”

He shot him another glare, but there was still a twinkle in his eye. Even though it royally pissed him off that Peter was around, he felt grateful for him being with him through this hard time. He couldn’t think of anyone better. Well, one person, but it was impossible for him to be there.

Eventually, he responded with, “Compazine. Not an _allergic_ reaction, but _a_ reaction.”

Peter did a snort-scoff. “Ironic.”

“Yeah,” Thinking back, the corners of John’s lips quirked into a light smile. “At least you and Dennis got a show out of it when I first found out,” Clocking his baffled expression, John explained, “Remember? That thing with my neck?” He brandished his fingers from the base of his skull to his shoulder. “You walked in on us when he gave me the shot.”

“ _That’s_ what that was?” A tiny laugh broke from his chest. “I thought you two were– Well, I guess I don’t know what I thought you two were doing.”

John felt his cheeks getting flush, which he hoped Peter missed. Just thinking about it made him grin widely to this day. Sure, Dennis was being helpful at the time, but nevertheless, it astonished him that he wanted to, considering they’d known each other for a little over a month. It was after he moved in with him that he’d seen more than his ass, which was more or less what he was blushing for. The compliment he received from Dennis was enough for him to feel like a worthwhile person.

“Hello,” the doctor cheerfully chimed in at the least opportune moment. “John Carter, right? I’m Doctor Glasney, this is Nurse Holly. Understand you had a minor heart attack.”

“It’s nothing,” John insisted. “I’m fine now.”

“It’s not nothing, Carter,” Peter chided. “He fell asleep in the car and I couldn’t wake him up. He also temporarily lost his hearing.”

“I told you, blood pressure spike.”

“Even so, I would like to put you on a monitor for a while,” When Glasney did, he discovered John’s heart rate was definitely not showing signs of distress. In fact, it was anything but. “Huh,” he uttered. “When was the cardiac episode?”

“Just a few minutes ago,” Peter said. “Why?”

“His pulse is sixty-two.”

“Pulse-ox is ninety percent,” Holly added. “BP’s one-ten over seventy-eight.”

John glanced up at the monitor above his head to double-check. After which, he donned an impressed expression. “Not bad, for once.”

“It isn’t, but I would still like to observe your vitals for a few hours.”

Vehemently, he shook his head. “Oh-ho, no. No way, I can’t do this again.”

“Just a few hours. That’s all.”

John looked to Peter, as though asking — begging — for him to swoop in and tell them that an ER stay was out of the question right now. Not that he had anything important to tend to back home. He’d rather be elsewhere. Except he didn’t get that free pardon. Giving in to the inevitable, John conceded defeat. “Fine. Do I need to change, or–?”

“Oh, no. We’re not admitting you just yet.”

A few nods of understanding from John cut short once the doctor’s words sunk in. “Wait, yet?”

Glasney ignored him and told the nurse, “See if somebody from neurology and cardiology can come down here.”

With that, they were left alone. Once again, John gave Peter a plea for at least some information on how long he would be stuck here. This time, he followed through on it.

“Doctor Glasney!” Peter called out as he jogged after him. He stopped in front of him, and after catching his breath, asked, “Is he okay?”

“It’s really too early to say.”

“I know, but... if you could guess, will he?”

“As a guess, I would say no. Not right now, at least. But he will be, in time. We just have to wait for the cardiologist.”

“Why, so they can tell him something he already knows?” Peter brushed the bridge of his nose, looking away from Glasney to avoid showing the fact that his eyes were welling up. “He’s dying. I know that. His heart’s weakened by malnutrition, lack of sleep and stress. I just want to know why I couldn’t wake him up before.”

“Perhaps, because he isn’t getting enough oxygenated blood to his brain?” Glasney ventured. “A neurologist can better help with your questions.”

* * *

Meanwhile, John began to feel odd. That sensation of falling backwards returned, bringing about a wave of anxiety. The room wasn’t moving in any way; just him. Falling perpetually. His eyes grew dry and heavy, barely able to keep them open. He just figured it was exhaustion.

His entire body went numb; couldn’t feel pain, discomfort, nothing at all. It was kind of nice, like his body is sleeping, but _he_ wasn’t.

 _Maybe I should sleep, he thought. No! No, don’t do that. Just think. Think, think! What could cause this? P.E.?_ Quickly, he shook off that diagnosis _. No, I can breathe, it’s just slow. Everything’s... slow... Wait, where am I?_ John’s eyes trailed from the lead wires to the monitor showing his sluggish vitals. _Oh. Right. Still here. I’d probably be able to think straight if someone were to shut off those alarms!_

Those alarms were going off for a reason. Somehow, he stayed alert, despite the outcries that broke from his body.

_Should I be panicking? I feel like I should be panicking. I mean, those doctors and nurses running up to me seem to be._

“Mister Carter?” Glasney spoke. “John, stay with me.”

_Leave me alone. Wait... That noise. Am I throwing_ _PVC’s_ _? That’s... not–_

Even after John’s eyes fluttered shut, he heard his name, clearly at first, then less so as time went on. Then nothing. There was no way he’d be left alone now, but at least he wasn’t awake for it.

Following the first shock from the defibrillator, two-hundred joules, Peter came rushing in. “The hell is going on?”

“No change,” one of the nurses announced.

“SCA, pulseless,” Glasney replied, then as he ordered the nurses, “Alright, resume compressions. One point milligram of epi, IV, then ten litres of saline.”

“Why didn’t anyone come and get me?” Peter demanded.

“You were on the phone. Whoever you were talking, you might want to them call back. Is there anybody else we can contact? Family or–?”

“No,” he hastened to respond. Peter knew how useless, heartless and unsympathetic his family members were; there was no point in getting in touch with them. “No, just us. I’ll call them back, but they’re in Chicago. I don’t know when they can get here.”

“How long has it been?” Glasney asked the nurse.

“Two minutes.”

“Okay, charge to three-sixty. Clear!”

The intense shock resulted in John’s body arching upwards like a croquet hoop just before flopping back down, limp arms draped out over the edges of the gurney. The erratic beating of his heart lasted about a second, then dropped to a regular pace.

“Back in normal sinus rhythm.”

He felt John’s neck for a carotid pulse; it was stable. “Excellent job, everyone,” Glasney pulled his gloves off with a snap. “Let’s get an ECG going, check his glucose levels–”

“No doubt it’s low,” Peter interjected. “Like I said, he hasn’t been eating.”

“I’d still like to see what it’s at.”

“Doctor Benton?” John weakly uttered.

At a quick pace, Peter shuffled toward his colleague’s side, and without being aware of it, he took John’s hand in his. “I’m here. What is it?”

Once again, John drifted off to sleep. His only response was a quiet moan.

“Carter?” Though it probably wasn’t a good idea, Peter jostled him. “Hey. Carter, stay with me.”

Slowly but surely, John’s eyes opened. As he squinted at him, he gave him a lazy smile, which was accompanied by an equally lethargic and drawn out response. “Look at you, worrying over me. It’s okay... I’m not going anywhere,” The only place he’d go to was the Land of Nod, for a third time, but before he did, he mumbled a few incoherent and delirious words. “I can’t. I have to find him.”

“Carter??”

“It’s okay if he sleeps. It’s pretty common after something like this,” Glasney said. “And it might actually help,” A scoff of self-depreciation escaped his lips. “Like I need to tell you, doctor.”

“What if he _doesn’t_ wake up?”

“We’ll do everything we can to make sure that doesn’t happen. Right now, he needs the rest.”


	19. Crushing, Sinking to Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much to the chagrin of John Carter, he was admitted to the ICU for heart complications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one opens with a headcanon flashback from the episode, Night Shift. The swearing in this bumped the story to a Teen rating.

_ “How long have we been doing this for?” Peter asked as he pumped away against Dennis’ chest. _

_Malik glanced at the clock above the side door leading into the next trauma room. “Fifteen minutes,” he responded._

_As Peter began to slow his pace, John gawked at him, unable to comprehend why he was giving up so quickly. It was hardly quick, but to him, it felt like seconds, not minutes. Then he saw him stop. “No,” John uttered in a distressed moan. “You can’t!”_

_ “Carter, it’s over. He’s gone.” _

_ He all but shoved Peter out of the way and took over compressions. “You’re not trying hard enough.” _

_ “John, stop,” Maggie placed her hand on his shoulder, only for it to be wrenched away with a quick shrug. _

_ “No. I won’t. There must be something we can do,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. _

_ “We’ve already done everything we could,” She tried to break him off again by pulling him away and just about whispered to him, “Come on. Let him go.” _

_ Gradually, unwittingly, John broke away and dropped backwards into her arms, as if something in his mind shoved his willpower out of the way and let rationality take over. It lasted for all but a couple of seconds when John’s eyes trailed up to Peter. _

_ “I’m calling it,” Peter announced. “Time of death–” _

_ “No way,” John’s voice came flat and empty of emotion. “You bring him back.” _

_ “I can’t.” _

_ “There’s gotta be something else. Some kind of procedure or-or– I don’t know, something! Otherwise, whats the fucking point of us?!” A sudden impulse seemed to come from deep within him, transforming him into somebody else entirely. John darted to Peter, putting him in a corner in the trauma room. “You bring him back, do you understand me, Peter fucking Benton?” John screamed out, voice nearly giving out, repeatedly whacking him across the chest with fists. “Do you?!” His outcries turned into sobbing, and his once balled up hands relaxed and gripped at Peter’s scrubs._

_ Malik hesitated to speak up for a few moments, nervous and uncomfortable. He’d never seen John this way before. Quiet despondency, sure, but not this. No-one had. Even if he did say something, he wasn’t sure if it would come out right. It wasn’t until after Maggie motioned towards the main door, indicating they should leave the two alone, that he said something at last. “I’m sorry, Doctor Carter.” _

_ Those four words were lost on John at that point. The only two things he could hear and perceive was his own weeping and a whooshing sound, akin to air blowing past his ears as he fell. He was falling, right into a dark fissure from which there was no escape. _

_ The two men stood embraced, amidst the mess of blood, latex gloves and tear away gowns surrounding the gurney where Dennis’ body laid lifeless and cold. The world around them seemed not to exist. _

* * *

Peter Benton stood by the hospital’s pay phone, wondering just what he’d say to them. It should have been easy enough — ‘Carter’s taking a turn for the worse,’ would have sufficed — but it proved to be a difficult task. He felt uneasy being there, staring at the phone. He should be in there with John. Not that he would have noticed, with him still sleeping soundly. 

Eventually, Peter picked up the phone and called the ER for a second time. “Hey, Jerry. Is Mark there?” 

The whole time Peter had left John on his own in his ICU room, he stared at the ceiling, deep in thought. It was over, he knew it. There was no way he could work like this, and that killed him more than the condition itself. He spent most of his life dedicating himself to becoming a medical professional, sat through ridicule and contempt for it, and now he could lose all he lost blood, sweat and tears for, all because he didn’t think of the repercussions of his self-harm. He didn’t care at the time, but he wished he had.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered to himself.

_Maybe I deserve this._

With a long exhale, John rolled over and flopped his head down on the pillows, staring sleepily at the door. Heavy eyelids closed and opened a few times before they finally popped open. Someone caught his sights. As realisation dawned on him, his eyes widened and locked on the person’s face on the other side of the door’s window, through the blinds.

“Dennis?”

Soon after, he walked away and John practically leapt out of bed, painfully yanking off the electrodes and IVs in the process, but it was simply a mere annoyance at the time. He burst through the door, only to find the hall was empty, save for a couple of visitors, a nurse and Peter, all the way down the hall.

They stared at each other for all but a second, then John bolted back into his room.

“I’ll call you back,” Peter spoke into the phone, voice low. With that, he hung up and strode into the room. Once he entered, he saw John slightly cowering against the wall, beside a window. “What the _hell_ were you thinking?” he demanded.

John stiffened even more, fear in his eyes. “Sorry.”

“You could have hurt yourself, you know that?” The sight of John’s guilt and anxiety told him he’d gotten the gist of it. Peter lowered and shook his head and his shoulders slumped with his sigh. “Carter, I’m not angry, just– Get back into bed.”

He wasted no time in climbing in and covering himself with the sheets and blankets. John’s poor heart drummed on and on, giving him every impression that it would either explode or burst out of his chest like an infant xenomorph. It took every ounce of strength to keep his symptoms from showing. Purposely slowing his breathing was the hard part. His brain begged him to huff and puff, but he refused. The last thing he wanted or needed was Peter telling him, ‘I told you so.’

Even so, it was evident that something serious was going on. Peter looked him over carefully and gently laid the back of his hand on John’s forehead. “You feel hot. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he replied, putting on a fake smile and trying hard not to lose his composure, what little he had left. John nervously picked at his hospital gown and coughed a couple of times, followed by a sniff. “Perfectly fine.”

Inwardly, Peter rolled his eyes at him. “Yeah, you sound like it,” He plopped himself into the chair beside John’s bed and rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, his hand cradling his cheek and jaw. For a long time, he stared at John while he was distracted, thinking of how to ask the question rolling through his mind. There was no other way but to just ask, “It was Gant, wasn’t it?”

His once hardened expression of deep thoughtfulness slacked, leaving it blank, while his internal self became apprehensive. Did Peter see him too, or was he just hallucinating again? Figuring it was the latter, he remained silent and waited for him to explain.

It took Peter a few moments to get it out. He wasn’t quite sure how to react, or if he should react at all, and he didn’t know how to make sense of it. So John was bisexual, what was the big deal? At the end of the day, people were equal. At least, they should be. It shouldn't matter who someone loved, or who they were attracted to, as long as they treated each other with respect, and he didn’t know John to be anything but respectful. So, why was he having such a hard time accepting it?

A few more seconds passed. Peter began to realise that he was correct. He struggled to try and get the words out. He could feel John’s face slightly darkening with subtle irritation. It was about enough to make Peter squirm in his seat, but instead, he stayed calm. John wasn’t all that intimidating, after all. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I just–”

“Maybe leave it at that,” A twinge of animosity fused with his words. “Besides, I don’t even know if what I feel, or felt, was anything more than some… stupid crush.”

“But you felt something, right? Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Yeah,” John’s mouth worked wordlessly with his nod. Then more clearly and concisely, he said, “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Peter could have given him some spiel about how Dennis knew on some ethereal or spiritual level, that he was with him right now, hearing every word, but he wasn’t going to tell him something that he didn’t believe in, himself. So, he kept his mouth shut and listened to anything else John might have to say, assuming he wanted to. It appeared to Peter he did.

“I _did_ love him,” It sounded contrite to say it now, but it was what he felt since the day they met. “I don’t know why. He drove me insane sometimes,” John let loose a sullen yet quietly fond chuckle. “He always had chocolate ice cream. I hated the smell of it. It made me sick.”

“Who doesn’t like chocolate ice cream?”

“Don’t start with me. I just don’t, okay? Chocolate in vanilla, sure, but not pure chocolate ice cream. It’s too much,” He arched an eyebrow and gazed at Peter quizzically. In his ranting, he forgot what the original topic was. “What were we talking about?”

“You and Gant. But we can talk about something else if you want to.”

“It’s okay. Do you miss him?”

Peter’s face went blank upon reflection. The truth was, he didn’t know. He barely knew Dennis, and the few words they did exchange weren’t kind, to say the least. Peter couldn’t help but think that maybe Dennis just wanted to be rid of him and his cold-hearted ways. If anything, he felt regret. _I should have done more_ , he thought to himself.

“What am I saying?” John asked. “You probably don’t.”

“I didn’t know him the way you did.”

“You never _tried_!”

“Carter, I’m not like you. I don’t have to be friends with everyone I work with.”

An exasperated, humourless chuckle droned from John as his annoyance flared. He muttered, “Okay, fine…”

“What do you want from me? You know how I am,” Peter said, an irked expression on his face. “I’m not into making friends, I don’t have many to begin with.”

“Can’t imagine _why_ ,” John’s words mingled with sarcasm.

With a wag of his fingers and a deep set livid frown lining his features, he growled, “You’re pushing it, man.”

“Oh, what, like you did with him?” John demanded in a fierce tone.

“Ohh, not this again,” Peter mumbled, then spoke normally, “Look, I know you’re not over it, but blaming me–”

“I told you, I don’t blame you any more than I blame myself,” His eyes narrowed as he struggled to breathe and talk without raising his voice even more than he already had. “We both fucked up, but I am _so_ tired of feeling like I am the only one who’s owning up to it. Like I’m the only one who cares!”

“Goddammit, you’re gonna make me say it?”

“What?”

“I care!” Peter’s admission was met with a disdainful scoff. “Why else do you think I’m still here?”

That was a good question. John didn’t have the faintest idea why he was here, other than Mark somehow succeeded in convincing him to come. There was no reason for Peter to stick around, not that he’d seen.

“I care about what happens to you. I may be bad at showing it, and I know it’s nothing you wanna hear right now, but… What happens to you happens to me. And seeing you the way you are now, it’s killing me.”

Though he was crumbling inside, John still managed to smile and laugh past his tears. “Shut up,” he uttered in a chortle. “I don’t like this new you.”

Air hissed through Peter’s teeth as he, too, snickered, then playfully thumped the side of his fist against John’s thigh. “It's just for now. Once we get back to work, it'll be business as usual.”

Another, more lazy grin danced across his thin lips. Half-awake, half-asleep, he said, “Wouldn't want it any other way.”

Peter watched silently as he dozed off, slowly breathing in then out and, every once in a while, stalling. That was nothing unusual, and after a while, John would start up again, but it still made him look at tye monitor in horror. Especially after what happened in the car.

It seemed impossible to describe what he felt in that moment. Scared, sympathetic, reticent… all of the above. He felt none of it before now; still, it flustered him, how appealing it was to him. Could it be possible he loved him, too, platonically? Could it be mistaken for something else? He never loved anyone, not really. No time for relationships of any sort, and the few he had didn't last long. Peter Benton was a creature who preferred his own company. One who enjoyed the freedom of being responsible, of choosing his own path. However, after having been thrust into the role of hero, surely he could be forgiven for enjoying being wanted at least.


	20. DNR

After an hour passed, the cardiologist, Louise Carmichael, came in to check John over. The ECG results were more than concerning. Louise went ahead and did an echocardiogram. Normally this would be done in the Cath Lab. However, this was an emergency situation.

John laid down on his side, arm behind his head. Almost instantly, they heard the sound of his heartbeat through the speaker, at a slow rate of forty-nine.

Louise eyed him with surprise. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m a little woozy…” John tried to get a glimpse of the screen. “It’s not looking good, is it?”

“Not exactly, no,” She turned the monitor towards John and Peter and pointed to the left ventricle. “See how thin this is? It means your heart isn’t pumping as well as it should. That could also explain your inability to wake up. Not enough oxygenated blood means extreme fatigue, and your brain isn't getting the signal that something is wrong. Normally, the brain wakes you up when the levels are low.”

Frightened by how critical John’s condition was, Peter’s posture straightened, and although he appeared as stoic as ever, worry assailed him. “So, he’ll need a transplant?”

John, on the other hand, wasn’t as subtle. The idea of having a major operation brought tears to his eyes. His lips and chin near imperceptibly trembled, prompting him to cover it with his hand.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Louise said. “He’s young and otherwise healthy. I think he can recover from this,” She then looked John in the eye. “But you _have_ to eat right and avoid triggers. It’s also important to know that, even _after_ you’ve recovered, you will still deal with these symptoms.”

“W-wait, for ten years?” John hastened to ask, worry in his tone and faltering his words.

“After today, it’s more like eight, but no. For the rest of your life. You can reverse this, but you won’t be the same, physically. Medications can ease the symptoms, though.”

There it was — that bit of bad news he expected. He could handle ten, maybe eight years, but for the rest of his life? It wouldn’t be easy, that was for certain. Always feeling winded after twenty or thirty steps, slow heart rate when lying or sitting down, then quickening when standing and moving and proceeding to feel faint? No-one could handle that, even with medication. He’d rather end it all.

Something clicked in his mind and he stared up at Peter, then back at the cardiologist. “Okay, uh…” As John’s shaking voice came, he moved his fingers in the air between himself and Peter. “Can you give us a minute?”

“Of course.”

Once more, it was the two of them, staring at each other for the longest time without a word. Finally, Peter spoke up.

“Look, um, we can figure something out. Some kinda pla–”

With trembling words, John tersely said, “I want a DNR order.”

Peter blanched. “What?”

“If something happens to me, now or later, even if I’ve collapsed in the hallway at County, just leave me.”

“Carter, you’re young. You’re–”

“I’m miserable,” he interjected a second time. “Please. I know you don’t respect my sexuality, but at least give me this.”

“I respect your sexuality, Carter. I just think that you’re being irrational.”

“It’s not irrational. I don't want to live like this. I can barely stand it _now_.”

A faint, knowing and almost rueful smile played on Peter’s lips. He felt as though he had lost him already, and losing him was unfathomable. While he never showed it, Peter thought of John as a younger brother, just adopted. He couldn’t see himself without him now, after three years together, even if it wouldn't happen right away. The thought haunted him. Even so, he had to honour his wishes. He owed him that much.

“Y-yeah. Okay,” Peter replied, voice floundering to an extent. “When we get back to Chicago we’ll set something up.”

“Thank you. That wasn’t so–” Out of nowhere, John found it hard to focus on anything. It wasn’t for lack of trying. He widened his eyes to see if there would be any chance; it didn't help much. Everything came across as hazy, and the sensation of falling backwards returned. “Wow…”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I feel– Did they give me anything?” John studied the bags on the IV stand, searching for some kind of pain medication or even Atropine on a slow drip, in case some rare side effects kicked in; it wouldn’t be the first time.

“No, just what they gave you during cardiac arrest, but that should be out of your system by now,” Peter apprehensively looked John over. His vitals were normal, considering how much he’d been through. It didn’t make sense. “Maybe you’re just exhausted?” Peter ventured a guess.

John could feel himself start to slip away, so in an attempt to keep it from happening, he forcibly grabbed on to Peter’s hand.

This caught him off-guard, leaving him both confused and alarmed. If John wanted comfort, he wasn’t sure how he would get it. Peter was out of practice being a person. Regardless, he tried by intertwining his long fingers with John’s, and softly spoke, “It’s okay, Carter. I’m here, alright? I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice slurred.

Peter’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted closer to him. “Say what?”

“You didn’t… need to come… all the way out here,” John breathed. “Just for me. It’s stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid…”

“Carter?”

“Hey,” He slapped his other hand on top of Peter’s. “On the plus side, this has gotten you to do something you’d never do in a million years,” Clocking the man’s perplexed stare, John held up their mingled fingers to him with a big grin. “You’re holding my hand.”

Peter cringed inwardly. It certainly was not something he would do, but he felt the need to. That was the embarrassing part. Monotonously, he responded, “Yeah, well, I thought you needed it.”

“I do,” As he slid further down the bed into a more comfortable position, he snuggled up with the pillows. Just before he could completely fall into a deep slumber, he said in a lethargic manner, “Don’t leave me.”

A delicate smile threatened to come to a head, but Peter didn't allow it to. “Wasn’t planning on it,” His free hand hovered over the crown of John's head, hesitating to touch him. In time, figuring that nobody would know, he caved and ran his fingers through John's oily hair. It was enough to make him jerk. “It’s alright. It’s just me,” Peter whispered, and managed to draw up a deep breath from John, instantly mollifying him back to sleep. “It’s alright. I’ll be alright.”


	21. Easier for Everybody…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Carter has been on a restricted diet; two weeks in, he’s still suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another flashback incoming. Might be the last one I do, just in case they’re getting annoying.

_Amidst the bustle of doctors going in and out of medical rooms, John sat on the hallway floor next to the room where Dennis was, back against the wall, just as despondent and disassociated as when he lost another patient to suicide. Another patient. He refused to believe that. He wasn't just another patient — he was his best friend; his something more. Or might have been, if John had said something sooner._

_Peter caught sight of him and headed towards him, emesis basin in hand. “There you are. Carter, we–”_

_“I’m not dreaming, am I?” John blurted out, leaving little chance for Peter to respond. “I’m not. He's gone.”_

_“Yeah, Carter, he is.”_

_“He said we were okay…” John spoke in a whimper. “Was it me?” At last, he came out of his distressed state and noticed the basin, scrutinising it with narrowed eyes. “What’s that for?”_

_He fiddled with it, drumming rapidly on it between his thumb, forefinger and middle finger before handing it to John. “I thought you might have to be sick at some point.”_

_The corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “You missed me by two minutes.”_

_Peter sank down beside him, looking at him the entire time. As much as he wanted to speak his mind, as much as he wanted to make him feel better, he wouldn't know what to say or do, if anything would even help at this point. All he knew how to be was professional. “You should call his family, let them know what happened.”_

_The look John shot him was akin to someone who had just been insulted. “A man died tonight.”_

_“I know.”_

_“A man that we knew, and it’s business as usual with you.”_

_“We can grieve after our shift’s over.”_

_“Well, good thing mine is over then,” John said in a groan as he stood up. That would have been the last of it if he didn't have a few choice words for Peter. He spun round, clenched fists at his sides, ready to say them when his mouth failed to produce what his brain wanted to get out. “I don't think I can.”_

_After Peter rose to his feet as well, he stared at him, almost speechless and completely tearless, unlike John. “You knew him better than anybody here.”_

_“Yeah,” His voice was but a mere whisper at first, then, overcome with grief, he started weeping all over again. Hearing how well he knew Dennis felt like a knife to the heart, its blade twisting over and over, leaving him no choice but to beg for the assailant to just end it already and rip it out. “I might have been the only one.”_

_Peter shrugged his shoulders and folded his arms. “So, what's the problem?”_

_“It’s too damn hard, Peter! Don’t you get that?” John chuckled at his own question. "No, of course you don't. You don't get anything, you don’t feel anything, you don’t care… You can scoff all you want, but you know I’m right. It's easier for you, easier for everyone, because we have to make that call every single day, for people we don’t know and will hopefully never see again! Dennis, we– We knew him! And I that’s why I can’t.”_

_”Yeah, okay. I get it.”_

_“You know, maybe you should make the call.”_

_”Carter, don’t be like this.”_

_“Why the hell not?” John demanded, nearly shouting._

_“Because you’re making a scene,” he returned, nervously gazing at the people around them._

_“You know what? Maybe I should,” It was now that he rose his voice, on purpose this time. “Maybe everyone here should know that you pushed him!”_

_“Carter–!”_

_“– You knew he was suffering and you pushed him, right of the platform and on to the tracks!”_

_“Yeah, and where the hell were you, huh? Off fooling around with Keaton, that’s where.”_

_That did it. His darkened eyes bore into Peter as his brain exploded with fury. John drew back a fist and let it fly, only to be swiftly caught by the wrist and had his arm pulled taut behind his back. John let loose an anguished outcry._

_“You gonna calm down now?” Peter asked in a grunt, straining to keep him still._

_Maggie Doyle came up to them at the worst time. She gawked at the sight of the two struggling with each other. “The hell are you guys doing?”_

_“He tried to punch me.”_

_“From the looks of it, I wish he had. Let him go.”_

_With a quick, harsh jerk, John got away from his grip and stormed off, never looking back._

_“John, come back, you could be hurt!” Maggie called out. She then glared at Peter. “What is wrong with you? He just lost his friend.”_

_Peter rolled his shoulder and kneaded his neck. Grumbling his words, he said, “He’ll be fine.”_

_There was an awkward silence lasting for what felt like forever while John strode across the main ER wing, past the admit desk, past the patients whose eyes fixed on him until they lost track of him after he entered the lounge, forcing the door open so hard it hit the arm of the couch behind it._

* * *

On an otherwise calm afternoon, the doors to the ER slammed open, shattering the silence. Two paramedics came in with a gurney. The patient, a woman with dark, curly hair and fair, porcelain skin, groaned something incoherently. She appeared altered and diaphoretic.

Mark, John, Carol and Connie rushed to them.

“What’ve we got?” Mark asked.

“Twenty-three-year-old woman collapsed at school. She complained of chest pains prior to that. BP is one-forty over sixty, pulse, one-twenty, resps, sixteen, sats at sixty percent,” the paramedic replied.

“Okay. Carol, what’s open?”

As they were running, Carol speedily checked for an empty room and just as expeditiously found one. “Trauma two.”

“Got it,” Mark took notice of John, decidedly pale and winded already. “Carter, you with us?”

“Huh?” he uttered, slipping out of his brain fog from the sound of his voice. After shaking off what remained of it, he was back. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

They wheeled the patient in, gently lifted her off the paramedic’s gurney and onto their own. Carol went to put her on a monitor when she noticed something between her breasts. She did a quick double check, squinting at her skin to see if she wasn’t seeing things. She wasn’t.

Mark’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Carol’s perplexity. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m not sure,” Once she moved the woman’s bra, she saw it clearly. A gigantic contusion on her chest. “Oh, God.”

“Someone did a number on her,” Connie noted. “Explains the chest pain. Must be what’s causing her tachycardia, too. What do you wanna do, Doctor Greene?”

“Chest film, then a CBC and check for ICT. How’s her pulse?”

“Still tachy at one-twenty,” Carol glanced over at John, who was now slumped sidewise against the wall. “Why is he even here? This isn’t a surgical case and he obviously isn’t well enough yet.”

Mark made the decision to ignore her question completely as he listened to the Jane Doe’s lungs. “Bilateral breath sounds,” He then waved John over. “Come here, Carter. We need to intubate.”

This perked John up. Widened eyes fixed themselves upon him, and he pointed at himself. “Me?”

“Benton’s not in yet. Might as well be useful somewhere. Get over here.”

Suddenly, alarms on the monitor began to wail.

“Crap, she’s in V-tach!” Carol exclaimed.

“Hold that thought. Connie, paddles, please? Charge to two-hundred.”

In the midst of it all, John’s hearing went muffled and the edges of his vision blurred and turned white. Everything around him seemed to disintegrate, leaving just him and his burning, aching chest and arm and his churning stomach. “Shit,” he mumbled. “Shit, shit, _shit!_ Not now.”

Voices permeated through the insanity that was his mind. He tried to focus on them but couldn’t. His face filled with panic as his head started to hurt, reminding him that his heart was still beating at a quick pace. It had to be faster than ever, he figured. He felt heavy, tired, dizzy, weak.

Finally, one voice snapped him out of it — Mark’s. “Carter!”

“W-what?” John asked, faltering.

“Patient is stable and ready. You have to intubate _now_.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I’m in charge of the defibrillator,” He wasn’t, really, but he wanted to see if John could pull his weight still, or if he needed to cut his hours back even more. “Come on, let’s go!”

Trepidation engulfed him, causing every muscle in his body to clench. Soon, he was gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. Little by little, he shuffled his way to the right side of the gurney, sliding the tray to the side and releasing a thin wheeze. “Okay. Uh… Versed?”

“Already administered, Doctor Carter,” Connie responded. “Just waiting on you.”

John panted harder, feeling as though he should be the one being intubated. When he went to reach for the laryngoscope with his shaking hand, he wound up knocking it to the floor.

“Alright. I’ll get it,” Mark stepped forward, moving to John’s side.

“No, I’ve got it! Can I get a new scope, please?”

Carol gazed at the new laryngoscope that Connie got for him shortly after he lost the first, about a foot and a half away from his grasp. Her eyes shrunk, giving it and then John a puzzled frown just before handing it to him. “Here.”

“Thank you,” A dry cough and a sniffle followed his words. He had to pause momentarily when the pain in his chest increased. It was spreading to the other side now, which was new, but after choosing to turn a blind eye to it, he continued with the procedure. He just hoped his hand would be steady enough.

Barely a minute passed, and he finished. “I’m in!”

“Are you sure?” Mark eyed him with not so furtive curiosity and alarm. The sound of the monitor’s beeping settling down gave him his answer, followed by John gesticulating violently at it to emphasise the rejoinder. “Alright then. Carol, see if you can get X-ray down here. Carter?” Mark crooked a finger, indicating he wanted John to follow him. “Outside.”

With a slump of his shoulders and a slow, backhanded wipe of his sweaty upper lip, John sighed and trailed after him. He didn’t want to move. Just those few steps out of the room and down the hall a bit strained his heart. “What did I do now?” John rasped out.

“Nothing. I just wanted to know if you were okay, but I can see you’re not.”

“I can’t breathe,” John began and plopped directly onto a vacant set of chairs near the payphone. “My heart feels like it’s about to explode and I think I need to take a twelve hour nap. Otherwise, I’m good.”

“Come with me.”

“I can’t move any more, Mark,” he whimpered, wincing in agony.

“Uhhmm…” He looked around helplessly, compelled to literally give John a lift, but he wasn’t strong enough. There was one person who was, however. “Jerry!”

“Hey, Doctor Greene.”

“I need you to pick up Carter,” he said, jerking his head in the direction behind him.

Jerry’s already beady eyes grew even smaller. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

“ _Ookayy_ ,” He drew the word out for at least three times as longer than he needed to and set out to do what he was told. “You’re the boss…”

“Hey, Jerr. What–?” John was swiftly cut off when Jerry whisked him off his haunches. “ _Whoa!_ Wh-what are you doing? Jerry, put me down.”

“Don’t drop him,” Mark urged.

“Where do you want him?” Jerry’s question came laboured.

“Exam room four works.”

It was unfortunate Kerry had to walk in at _that_ moment, when Jerry had John cradled in his arms like a child and Mark frantically waving his hands, as if it would make him move any faster. “What in God’s name are you three doing?” she demanded.

“Mark wanted me to–”

“Emergency training,” Mark swiftly cut in, elbowing Jerry in his gut.

“Training? What sort of training involves this?”

“I told you, emergency,” Mark jerked his head towards the door. “Jerry?”

“Hang on!”

The view of Kerry from John’s perspective may have been altered, being upside down, but he could tell she was peeved by her stance and appearance. As time went on, he found himself feeling much, much worse. John scrunched his eyes tightly shut and tried to take his mind off things.

Kerry forced him to turn, so she could get a better view of John. What she saw made her stomach drop. “What happened?” she asked, her voice damn near going shrill. “He looks horrible!”

“I was trying not to make this a big deal,” Mark said, then, in almost a whisper, he added, “It happened again.”

“Just as bad, or–?”

“A little less. I was about to check him over when you showed up.”

“Well, _go_!” Kerry exclaimed impatiently. “Don’t let me stop you. Keep me posted.”

“Will do,” He gave Jerry the signal to proceed, and he waved Chuny over. “Chuny, can you help me with this?”

“Doctor Carter again?” she ventured.

“Yep.”

“It’s been two weeks.”

“Recovery doesn’t happen overnight,” Mark entered the room backwards, turned on his heels and walked over to the bed to help Jerry set him down. “Okay, nice and easy, now.”

“Beta blockers?” Chuny offered.

“Let’s get him checked out first.”

Soon after getting him situated, Jerry made known, “He feels really hot.”

Mark felt his slick, shiny forehead, leaving behind a slight sheen of perspiration on the back of his hand. “He’s definitely diaphoretic. Carter?” Gently, he shook him. “You still with us?”

As John licked his dry lips and swallowed, trying desperately not to cry, he gave a lethargic nod.

“Okay, good. Stay that way, alright? Have you eaten?”

“Yeah,” he croaked out as hoarsely as a raven.

“What’d you have?”

He had trouble just remembering his name, never mind what he ate hours ago. “It was– I–” Air burst of air came sharp and wheezy. “I can’t breathe!”

It wasn’t long before they heard a familiar bleeping after Chuny hooked John up to a monitor. His heart rate was steady at one-hundred and five.

“That’s… not good,” Jerry uttered, stating the obvious.

“How are you doing, Doctor Carter?” The lack of response made Chuny divert her eyes from the monitor and at him. “Carter? Mark, he’s unresponsive.”

“Oh, John,” he mumbled in a defeated sigh. Mark rubbed his sternum repeatedly with his clenched fist. “Come on. Don’t do this to us again.”

“Vitals look good,” she announced calmly. “Maybe he passed out?”

“Maybe. Alright, let’s leave him alone for now. Start him on some IV fluids. Can’t remember the last time I saw him drink anything. I’ll come back in half an hour.”

Jerry and Mark left, leaving Chuny alone to fight her emotions and care for him. She and John never really got to know one another, outside of work, but now she feared she might not have the chance.

A moment later, and the IV was inserted with little difficulty, save for a pained wince from John. Chuny was grateful for the reaction, after having none for a few minutes.

“Sorry, Carter,” she quietly spoke, then gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze. “I hope you feel better.”

* * *

Up in the OR, Peter Benton and Don Anspaugh walked and talked while heading in to scrub up. It felt awkward, largely in part because Peter felt he should’t even be there. All the times he was reminded of Dennis’ passing, seeing his name on old charts, hearing that so-and-so had to make up for his absence made it all the more harder to bear. John had his way of dealing with it, withdrawing was his. Unfortunately, he couldn’t right now.

“So, how do you think young Doctor Carter is doing?” Anspaugh asked.

Now ripped from whatever reality he was lost in, Peter scarcely knew what words were spoken and by whom. There was a good five second delay before it registered and a further three to respond. “He’s, uh, doing fine. A little thrown off at first.”

“What do you mean ‘thrown off?’”

“It’s been a while for him, you know. It took him a while to readjust himself.”

“Any complications with patients?”

“No, no,” Peter replied. “Nothing like that.”

“Good,” Anspaugh pushed open the door to the changing rooms. Before he entered, he added, “Because the last thing this place needs is another malpractice suit.”

Though he wasn’t wrong, Peter couldn’t help but find it a little funny. Not in a ha-ha way, either. It was as if Anspaugh wanted to rub his nose in his own failure from two months ago. In fact, that was exactly what he was doing. Yet another reason he didn’t feel worthy of being here. With a deep breath, Peter reminded himself to pretend like nothing was amiss and to get on with the job.

Peter stolled to the main desk and checked his box for messages; he had none. It was then that he saw the board and noticed a severe lack of the name, ‘John Carter,’ on there. “Is Carter not on today?”

“He was,” Shirley, the OR nurse, told him. “Doctor Greene called and postponed all appointments that couldn’t be transferred to someone else.”

“Oh, God. No,” he thought out loud in a distressed mumble, then sprinted for the elevators.


	22. From Denial to Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated ending. The original one I had didn’t sit right with me.

The ultrasound put out a familiar, bassy whomping noise as the wand pushed against John’s chest, then a whoosh with each heartbeat. There was a low hum that he could somehow feel in his bones, and it was a sensation he was getting used to. This was the third time he had one; once back in Atlanta and another time at County, preformed by their Cardiologist, Jack Kayson. He wasn’t one of John’s favourite amongst the doctors here, but what choice did he have?

“Left ventricle is still thin,” Kayson stated. “But it’s slowly getting better. That diet you’re on isn’t doing you any favours, though.”

“He has to be on it,” Mark said, folding his arms. “At least for a month.”

“I realise that, but it isn’t helping. He may as well be starving himself all over again. He needs nutrition.”

“He’s getting it!” There was a moment of silence while Mark waited for John add something to the argument. He figured he would be waiting a while, so he asked, “Right?”

At first, John’s sole response was a smile, guileless as a child, then eventually spoke with equal innocence. “Technically, ice cream has dairy in it.”

Mark slapped his own forehead in a face palm. Exasperated, he uttered in a sigh, “Oh, God, Carter. Is that all you’ve been eating?”

“Kind of. I’ll do better.”

“I should hope so!” Kayson exclaimed. “You’re too young for a transplant, son.”

“If I get that bad, just let me die.”

“Hey,” Mark chided him with all the chivvy of concerned parent. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Well, if you don’t need me anymore… Try to get some real sustenance, Doctor Carter,” Kayson took his leave, without another word.

For a while, nobody said anything. It seemed impossible to express any opinion at all. At least, nothing that either of them didn’t already make known before. Mark knew John had reservations about continuing at the pace he was going, and John knew how Mark felt about it. Disappointed, annoyed and mortified that he could easily give up.

At last, John broke the silence. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Carter. Just get better.”

A chuckle, mirthless and despondent, escaped from his mouth. “If only it were that simple,” John managed to get out before he completely broke down. “Sorry,” he whimpered, trying hard to plug up the dam. “I don’t know why–” John’s hand waved up towards his face, now wet with tears. 

“Stop apologising. It’s okay. It’s been a long few weeks, and sadly, it’s going to get worse before it gets better. But we’re here for you.”

There was a long, weary and shaky sigh before he tried to talk again. “Can I go back to work?” John asked, voice coming as almost a whisper. Anything louder and he would have started weeping for a second time.

Mark gave him a thin-lipped half-smile. “Sure. Take a few minutes to get yourself together, okay?”

Then there was one. A sudden sense of helplessness washed over him. One that left him feeling bitter against himself.

As he wiped the gel off his chest, John’s eyes caught sight of the ultrasound image still on screen. It stalled his breathing for a few seconds, then gradually became rapid the longer he stared at it. John was too out of it the last two times to fully take it in. He traced the ventricle walls with his finger, horror and regret marring his features. His entire body trembled profusely.

How could he let himself go, ignoring the signs and major circumstances? At the time, he didn’t care. A part of him still didn’t. A larger part of him, however, wanted to keep going, and right now, he was unsure how he could.

John covered his mouth with the back of his hand, hoping to forestall either another outburst of hysterics, gagging or gasping for air. It didn’t work. It wasn’t long before he had to rush to the sink at the side of the exam room and dry heave, not from illness, but rather from such deep-seated emotions. Once he stopped, he rested his forehead against the faucet and sobbed silently into the sink.

* * *

“Carter down here?” Peter asked Jerry, voice stuttering as he slowed his sprint to a slow jog.

“Ah, crap. I was supposed to page you,” He cursed at himself for not remembering, shook it off and went on, “Yeah, he’s uh, in Exam Four. Sleeping, I think.”

Wasting no time, tuning out Jerry’s advice in leaving John alone for now, Peter rushed to the room. Once he entered, he saw John lying there, unconscious or asleep — he couldn't tell off the first impression — pale and shaking to a small degree. He should have been used to seeing him this way, but he was not in the slightest. It still struck a chord with him, and an uneasy one at that. He didn't make it past the doorway.

Anxiously, he leaned in and spoke up. “Carter?” A deep set, disconcerted frown puckered his eyebrows and crinkled the corners of his eyes. This wasn’t his annoying puppy of a colleague; it was some other man. Moments later, he left the room just as quickly as he went in. “Call security, Jerry. He ran again.”

Before Jerry could get the words out, John said it for him with a put-on grin. “Actually, he’s standing right here.”

A small, faint smile crossed his full lips. Peter plodded to him, eyeing every inch of the man's body. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “Just got worn out, panicked. That’s all.”

“You’re sure? You could be hypoglycemic.”

“Probably,” John had an uninterested air. The truth was, he denied any damns given, either by others or himself. He was over it. “Randi, can you do me a favour? Page Doctor Greene and tell him I’m headed out?”

“For the day?” she asked.

“No, just for an hour,” While walking away, he glanced over his shoulder and caught Peter following him. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?”

“It _looks_ like you don’t trust me. I’m just getting some air, maybe some food. Wanna watch me eat? Make sure I’m doing what I’m supposed to?”

“Now that you mention it, yeah. I would.”

“Oh, my God,” he murmured in a frustrated chortle. “You and everyone else, I swear. You’re unbelievable.”

“We’re just making sure you’re taking this seriously.”

John came to a halt, whirled around and snapped, “I _am_ taking this seriously!” Realising he must have seemed strange and alarming to everyone around him and Peter, he dialled it down. “For two weeks, I have done nothing but what everybody asked of me. Okay? I spent a week on clear liquids, I’ve done the therapy sessions and seen the nutritionist and dietitians, I’ve only _just_ gotten started on full liquids, which is not much better! …All I want right now is for people to stop fussing over me.”

“You want to be alone? You got it,” With a somewhat slumped posture, Peter ambled back to _County_. “Have fun.”

“Oh, come on. I didn’t mean it like that,” John griped. “You could join me. Benton? Hey!”

He gave a short wave of his hand in dismissal to John’s begging.

“I’ll buy.”

That perked him up, stopping him dead in the middle of the road.

Hopeful to have made an otherwise stubborn lone-wolf of a man at least somewhat tempted to hang out, John waited with bated breath for Peter’s response.

Slowly, Peter turned to him and walked towards him. “Thirty minutes.”

* * *

_Doc Magoo’s_ was virtually empty, as per usual. Total of four people, including Peter and John, who knew that anyone else who had been there probably had the tuna salad and were now stuck in their bathrooms, eventually making their way to _County_ to be treated for food poisoning.

The two slid into a booth, both sitting opposite each other. Although John collapsed into it more than Peter did, having not eaten since breakfast. Even then, it wasn't much. Plus the expected rapid heartbeat, giving rise to a pulsing sensation in his stomach. It didn't exactly leave him wanting food.

Peter leaned with his elbows resting on the table, eyeing him with an unreadable expression, not wanting to show how concerned he was. “Something the matter?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Everything's fine,” he said with confidence. Convincing it to Peter, however, was about as useful as carrying water with a knife. The look of utter askance told him that. “Yeah, okay, I’m a little wiped out.”

“A _little_ wiped out?” he repeated incredulously.

“Hey, remember when I asked not to be fussed over?” John derisively asked, leaning back against the booth with arms crossed.

“Yeah, well, it’s kinda hard not to when you look like you’re about to faint.”

“Well, I haven’t yet. Thankfully.”

A faint smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “You _are_ getting better. Remember when you couldn't walk from the admissions desk to the lounge without blacking-out?”

“No, because I blacked-out,” John replied with a snicker and a quick grin of his own, fading just as swiftly when it came to him. “I don’t _feel_ any better.”

“You remember what Carmichael said. You’re always going to feel this way. It just lessens with time.”

“Yeah, and you remember what _I_ said?”

Peter gave a curt nod and pretended to read the menu. “I do. If something happens–”

“Which it _will_ ,” John cut in.

“– No heroic measures.”

“So you _do_ listen.”

Pontificating in a moan, Peter told him, “It’d be a tragic loss, Carter. You know that?”

John tilted his head to one side, and began scrutinising him intently, wondering what his game was. “Are you trying to get me to change my mind?”

At last, he looked up, a blank stare. “Of course not.”

“Because I won’t.”

Peter shrugged. "Okay then."

“I don’t care how much I’ll be missed.”

“Carter, I said okay,” Moving swiftly on, Peter asked, “What are you having?”

A burst of incredulous laughter spat out of John’s lips, as if begging the question, ‘Are you serious?’ There wasn't much he could eat here. He simply came over to escape and maybe drink some water or pop, even though he wasn’t supposed to.

“Come on, man. You’ve gotta eat something. I can hear your stomach growling from here!”

A brunette, tired, older waitress came to their table, notepad and pen in hand. “What can I get you guys?”

“I’ll have water and a fruit salad,” Peter then handed her the menu. “Carter?”

For a long time, all he did was glare at him, resentment flowing through his veins. It may have been the starvation induced mood swings talking, but he seriously considered screaming at Peter for feeling forced to do something he wanted to in his own time. Déjà fucking vu.

In the end, it came down to one basic item on the menu. “Just a water, please.”

The waitress regarded him as if he lost his mind. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. That’s it,” Following the return of his menu, John slumped futher into the booth. Though he didn’t have direct eye contact, keeping his sights elsewhere, he could still feel Peter’s eyes boring through him. “You can take that look off your face. I’m not hungry.”

Holding his usual scowl, Peter responded, “I thought you were taking this seriously.”

“I’m not allowed to not feel hungry now? I told you, I am,” An expression of earnestness brought forth a scoff from Peter. “Look, I don’t have any delusions — I know I’ll go back to old habits if I keep this up — but it isn’t easy for me. I have to take my time, and you have to deal with that.”

Peter knew he was just eluding his responsibilities again. He had a good mind to take John back to County, shove a gastric tube down his throat and force-feed him. It may have been unorthodox, but it would’ve gotten the job done. He couldn't stand to see John like this any longer. But he was getting better, just at his own pace, and that was what pissed Peter off.

_How hard could eating be?_ Peter wondered to himself.

Completely hard, it turned out. To John, it was like an addiction, and like any habit, if you cut it off, there will be withdrawal and even relapse. Eating was definitely difficult for him, to say the least, especially after he hadn't for so long. Seven months of semi-starvation, then almost a week of total abstinence from food. Even now, it almost turned him off to smell or _look_ at a pizza.

John’s eyebrows shot up and cocked his head until his eyes locked with Peter’s. “Doctor Benton? Did I lose you?”

The sound of his voice snatched Peter’s attention. He was elsewhere, for a moment, motionless, as if petrified. It scared him that John could so easily revert to starving himself again. Uncertain of what to say, he kept his mouth shut.

“Listen, I’m gonna be okay,” John assured him confidently, though it felt like a lie. “Yeah, I’m still not entirely well, but I will be okay. And if not… you know what to do.”

“Would you stop being so fatalistic?” Peter touted with a look of genuine nervousness. “I don’t want to think about it any more than I have to.”

“What, you’ll miss me?” The shift in Peter’s gaze and a clear of his throat told him he was right. A wide smile, stretched from ear to ear, dimpled his cheeks. “Oh my God, you _would_ miss me.”

“Carter…”

He pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle his giggles. It didn’t really help. His hand flopped down into his lap and clasped the other one. “I mean, I didn’t think I made that much of an impression on you.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. I would,” he hastened to get off his chest. “Don’t make this a big deal, alright?”

“Yeah, sure. That’s–” Gradually, John’s eyes began to well up. Barely able to control his overwrought emotions, he came close to breaking down right in the diner. If it weren't for his domineering, unsympathetic and totally weary colleague sitting in front of him, a hangdog expression on his face, he probably would have. After an extensive sniffle, John at first whimpered, “Sorry,” He coughed and tried to be a little less choked up this time. “I’m sorry, I just– You made my day.”

A roll of his eyes accompanied an exasperated sigh. “Carter, please.”

“Alright, alright,” John held his hands up in surrender. “I’ll stop. Still, it’s nice to be wanted. I haven’t been for a long time.”

“Get used to it,” Peter grimaced, decidedly uncomfortable with what he said. It just came out. “I mean–”

“I know what you mean,” John gave him a quick flash of a grin, showing how appreciated he felt. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Yeah, uh… same goes for you,” The arched eyebrow he received told him John didn’t understand. “Your… sexuality. You _are_ still–?”

“Bi? Let me see,” John put a finger to his wrist to check for a pulse. Two seconds later, he caustically retorted, “Yeah, still bisexual.”

Peter gave him a little whisk of a smile and said, “Sorry. I’m still figuring it out.”

“Well,” John leaned forward, his fingers laced before him on the tabletop. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he answered with a low, half-chuckle.

John knowingly nodded, smirking. Finally, the student became the teacher. After a sharp inhale, John called out to the waitress, “Can we get two root-beer floats, please?” He did a double-take and noticed the not so subtle dirty look Peter had fixed on him. “I deserve one.”

“It’ll irritate your stomach,” he intoned in a nagging manner.

“Then I’ll take some calcium carbonate.”

“Tums alone won’t help with the discomfort you’ll feel.”

“Probably not, but it will be worth it.”

While the two of them talked in depth about what being bisexual was and what it meant, too distracted by the conversation, neither of them noticed a man standing twenty feet away from the diner, watching. A man they both knew; a man that, if he made himself known, would probably piss them off to no end. So, he waited until he felt it was time. When or how he would know, he wasn’t sure. One thing was certain: John would be hit the hardest, but he expected it. After all, who could forgive the faked death of a friend, confidant and, perhaps, something more?

Until then, he slipped away into the small crowd of people wandering the street, squeezing by parked cars at the curbside, headed for the L-train, going home to hide like the coward he felt he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the last chapter.
> 
> I hope this was enjoyable. It’s my first ER fic, and it probably shows. I tried to keep everyone in-character as best as I could.
> 
> Until the next part! (Which will be edited tomorrow and posted sometime this week.)


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